


The Catchfire Days

by MEVaughan



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Memories, Complete, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Repressed Memories, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-06-09 21:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15276135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MEVaughan/pseuds/MEVaughan
Summary: Post-The Republic of Thieves.On the road to Emberlain, Locke Lamora is struck down by a freak bolt of lightning, during a storm.Almost twenty-five years previous, Lamor Acanthus steps onto the shores of Catchfire, drunk and grief-stricken, and has an unfortunate run-in with a grubby orphan boy who will change everything.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Triggered by the lightening, Locke recovers his lost memories of Catchfire, but is rendered comatose. Jean and Sabetha struggle to keep him alive, and deal with the reality that this may finally be it for the infamous Locke Lamora.Hurt/Comfort, friendship drama, with love and plenty of fretting from Sabetha and Jean, and new take on Lamor.COMPLETE!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to any aspects of the Gentleman Bastard Sequence. All rights remain with Scott Lynch and his respective publishers. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Comments are deeply appreciated and craved.

Chapter One

Later, Locke Lamora would theorize it was the bondsmagi’s doing. A final fuck-you, as if the events in Karthain hadn’t been enough. Naturally, they probably didn’t plan for things to turn out quite like they did…A bolt of lightning usually does more than trigger a few memories, but then if anyone _had_ planned it—be it Patience, the Falconer, or even one of the Thirteen themselves, none of them had prepared for Jean Tannen.

The road to Emberlain was long. Jean and Locke had conned their way aboard a ship part of the way, and then secured horses for themselves. They were some of the few heading toward the havoc of the city, with most people on the road fleeing the civil war which had broken out violently. More than once, Jean looked at the desperate, impoverished people hurrying in the opposite direction to them, and asked, “Is this really a good idea?”

“A rich city falling apart at the seams, as people with more money than sense all struggle to take control? It’s the perfect place for the Gentlemen Bastards to lay the foundations of a new plan.”

Locke had been trying very hard. His suggestion to go to Emberlain had not gone down with much enthusiasm, but Jean seemed to understand that what Locke Lamora needed right now was a chaos he could play to.

Because there was a new poison running through Locke, one he was struggling not to fall prey too. _Sabetha. Lamor Acanthus. A Key. A Crown. A Child._

“It’s bollocks,” Jean said. “Patience was fucking with you, Locke.”

“And she succeeded,” Locke replied. “Fuck, Jean, even if I tell myself it’s all shit, I can’t get it out of my head. That tavern we passed earlier—the Crown of something or another—I felt sick just looking at it. Thirteen gods, it’s just a name! A word. But Patience’s has got me looking…She’s got me fucking looking for it.”

“At the very least,” Jean tried for a joke, “you’re actively trying _not_ to die, for once. So I suppose I ought to be grateful.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too much.” Locke adjusted himself in his saddle, wincing. “My privates are on fire, and the only thing that’s going to rectify another gods-damn day on horse-back is a lot of wine. I say we stop for the night at the next inn, hustle some money at cards, and drown our sorrows?”

“Sorrows?” Jean snorted. “Us? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Locke. Our lives are the picture of perfection.”

“Of course, how could I forget?” Locke grinned. “Getting royally fucked by bondsmagi is a blessing.”

“As is getting poisoned and blackmailed,” Jean joined in.

“Joyous days—almost getting killed by every other person on the street.”

“Putting two years into an intricate con and walking away with nothing to show for it.”

“Ouch, Jean—that one still cuts deep.” Locke winced. “Almost dying. Twice.”

“Almost watching you die. Twice.”

“Losing all our money.”

“Losing our home.”

“Losing our friends.”

“Losing loved ones,” Jean said, a little more softly.

“Fuck, Jean—you’re right, we’ve nothing to complain about!” Locke grinned. “Perelandro be praised.”

“Now I do need a bloody drink,” Jean chuckled. “There’s a place up ahead. Provided it’s not rat-infested, let’s stable the horses.”

“Just in time too.” Locke looked up at the sky, his eyes narrowed. A heavy layer of clouds was encroaching on the horizon, deep lilac in colour. The air was thick and hot, and there was an energy in the air. Distantly, Locke could hear thunder.

The inn, a simple but reasonably clean place was almost full to the brim when they arrived. Jean shouldered his way through the crowd to the service desk to procure a room, while Locke went toward the bar and got them a bottle of honey wine.

“We’ll be sharing a bed. The inn’s all but full—I think I got the last room, and only because I slipped him an extra coin,” Jean announced, as he slid into the small wooden booth opposite Locke, silently accepting his drink with a nod of thanks. Locke swirled the wine in his own glass, looking thoughtfully out of the window.

“Where do you think she is?” he murmured. He didn’t need to say the name.

“Who knows.”

Locke chewed on his lip for a moment, then took a long drought of wine. “Sorry. I’m trying not to be a miserable git.”

Jean refilled Locke’s glass. “What Patience said was shit,” he repeated. “Sabetha will work that out eventually. This time, maybe it’s her turn to come and find you.”

“I didn’t find her,” Locke reminded. “Maybe I should have. But I feel like…If I go after her now, it’ll only confirm what she’s afraid of—it’ll only drive her further away. Damn it, Jean…Sometimes I think if I loved her less, she’d be able to love me more.” He stopped. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“But if Patience was right, it would be any red-head, wouldn’t it?”

“As I said. Full of shit.”

“I loved Sabetha from the moment I saw her. I wish I knew why. Gods, I wish I knew why…because then maybe she’d believe me.” Locke snorted. “Doesn’t say a lot that she believed Patience instead.”

“It wasn’t Patience she believed,” Jean said quietly. “It was her own fears. It was your fears. She’ll come back, Locke. She will. Sabetha’s not a coward.”

Locke laughed. “I suppose if I’m hoping for her to come back, I better stop believing Patience as well.”

“She really did a number on you.” Jean sipped his drink a little more demurely than Locke.

“Well, I always have you, Jean,” Locke said, fluttering his eyes. “At the very least I don’t need to be afraid that our friendship is based solely on Lamor Acanthus’ undying loyalty to his pet dog.”

“If you’re implying I’m the dog in this situation, Locke Lamora,” Jean said pleasantly, “you’ll be waking up with a hatchett in your head tomorrow morning.”

“I suppose it could be a cat, if you prefer.”

“There’s a nice spot in the stables where I could bury your body. No one would even know you were there. Oh great Locke Lamora, Thorn of Camorr, Garrista of the Gentleman Bastards, Priest of the Nameless God—where does he lie now? Where he belongs—under a pile of horse-shit.”

“You have a real tongue for poetry, Jean.” Locke pretended to ponder. “Perhaps for our next game you should be a playwrite?”

Jean snorted. Rain drummed against the window. The rumbling thunder was less distant now. Far ahead, a small fork of lightening illuminated the rolling waves of cloud.

“At the very least,” Locke said, quiet now, “I have one reason to thank Patience for her prediction.”

“How so?”

“You will lose a key, a crown, a child…A startlingly generic selection of things, but none to which I am currently tied. But if…if she’d said a friend…A brother—”

“Locke,” Jean murmured. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to be a miserable git.”

Locke laughed again, and Jean poured him another glass, before refilling his own. They toasted to each other’s health and began to scheme.

On the table, a third glass lay full, and un-drunk. A glass poured to air.

 

*

 

**Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment sharing your thoughts and feelings, and I will update as soon as possible! Next chapter, the lightning strikes!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, all posted on the same day! If I get a few comments, I will try ultra hard to finish the next section and post it tomorrow, so please do share your thoughts and tell me if you're enjoying it!

Chapter Two

The room was small, but comfortable, with a large bed that took up the majority of the back wall. This was just as well. Jean and Locke had shared beds on several occasions throughout their childhood, and on almost all those occasions, Locke had found himself kicked out and sleeping on the floor.

“Honestly, I don’t know how you and Ezri managed in a hammock,” Locke said, lounging atop the covers.

“Your mistake is thinking I push you out in my sleep,” Jean said, from where he was washing the dirt of the road from his face.

“Should I just get on the floor now then?” Locke asked, half in earnest. He was bone-weary from travelling, and despite the fact he ached in many unmentionable places, the Catchfire orphan in him was quite content to curl up on the carpet.

“You can stay in the bed, so long as you stick to your side.”

“It’s because you’re warm,” Locke replied. He and the Sanza twins would sleep in a giant pile whenever they were forced to share a sleeping space, and even Sabetha would curl up along the edge, leaching what body-heat she could get. Jean hadn’t been at the mercy of the Thiefmaker long enough to get into the habit of nesting for survival. Not that he needed to—he always burned like a furnace. Locke was always quick to get cold—useful during the Camorri summer, but useless during those harder winters.

“I will break any part of you that so much as brushes the air around me,” Jean said cheerfully, and Locke grumbled.

“You’re really going all out on the threats today.”

“I discovered reasoning with you never works.”

“Nonsense, I am easy to reason with.”

Jean, who had been in the middle of shaving, laughed so hard he had to put the razor down.

Locke hopped off the bed and crossed the room to the window. The storm was howling directly above them, causing the loose panes of glass to rattle noisily with each lash of the wind. The sky was a frightful picture of lightening, and dark, ominous clouds reared up like some sort of long forgotten Elderin monster. Locke was glad they’d decided to stop when they did. It was still only evening, but it was blacker than night out there, and the storm looked like it meant to go on for some hours yet.

Looking down into the small open courtyard beneath them, he could see a stable-boy quickly leading a dappled grey horse out of the rain. The horse’s ears were pressed flat, and it was tossing its head. The stable boy struggled to get the horse under control, and was finally able to drag it undercover out of the rain. Locke didn’t envy the boy his job.

Out below an olive-tree, Locke saw someone moving away from the in. It was a woman, her skirts flying, a hand clamped hard over the hood of her cloak, holding it down. She looked soaked to the bone, so Locke couldn’t understand why she wasn’t running for cover. She seemed to be deliberating with herself, pacing.

She must have sensed Locke looking, because all at once she turned and looked directly up at his window. Locke froze.

Sabetha. Even through the murk of rain and the misty glass of the window, he recognised her. He knew her. He was running for the door before he even had a chance to tell Jean.

“Locke?” Jean cried with alarm as Locke charged, his shoes forgotten, down the corridor and stairs, shoving people out of the way. Jean followed him. “Locke, what in the hells—what are you doing?”

“It’s her!” Locke shouted back, and he ripped the heavy inn door opened, sprinting out into the courtyard. Jean followed him.

Beyond the tree, Sabetha was still stood, stock-still, soaked and lovely. Her eyes were wide as Locke came running out. She took a step back as he approached her, and Locke slowed. Jean followed him and then huffed.

“Sabetha,” he greeted.

Sabetha didn’t reply. She was as pale as a ghost. Locke took another unsure step toward her, stopping under the tree. The cold bit at his bare arms and feet, and he realised how stupid he must look to her.

“I thought you’d head for Emberlain,” she finally said, and her voice was confident, clear despite the storm. Water streamed in the grooves down her face, and Locke wanted to kiss her. To hold her. He didn’t dare move. “It was easy to find you—a man who looks like he eats stone for breakfast, and another who looks like he’s never eaten a thing in his life, but can swallow down a meal for two in less than a minute.”

“I’m back to eating normally now. Mostly,” Locke said.

“Ah. So not enough?” Sabetha smiled.

“Sabetha…” Locke wanted to ask her where she’d gone. Ask her why she was here. He was happy—too happy. So happy he felt scared.

Sabetha’s smile faltered. “I didn’t like how it was left. I feel used—used by those bastards.”

“We all do,” Jean said. “Why don’t you come in?”

“I’m not sure I want to be here,” Sabetha admitted. “I just…I feel lost. And I hate that.”

“But you are here,” Jean spoke, Locke still too struck dumb. He felt sick. That happiness was ebbing away and quickly being replaced with nervous fear now. “So let’s go in. Let’s talk. Have a drink.”

Sabetha’s eyes turned to Locke. “No,” she said. “This was a mistake. I should have—”

“Please,” the words burst out of Locke. “Please, no more bullshit.”

His chest ached. He clutched his hands to it.

“Haven’t they taken enough? Haven’t we lost enough? Why the fuck should any of it matter?”

Sabetha’s expression was patient. “I want that to be true,” she said. “I do. So much.”

“Sabetha, come on. Come inside.” Jean crept forward. “We’re not doing this in the rain. Come on.”

“If I come in now, I won’t be able to leave,” Sabetha said softly.

“All the more reason for you to come in.” Locke took another few strides forward, still under the canopy of the tree.

Sabetha shook her head. “I thought seeing you, I thought it was ease my worries—I thought it would make the whole thing go away, make it feel like nonsense. But it doesn’t Locke. It doesn’t.”

“Sabetha—”

“You don’t understand,” Sabetha said. “There’s a look in you…something about your eyes…Gods, now that I see it, I can’t unsee it.”

“Please,” Locke was shuddering.

“I don’t want to believe it, Locke—on Galdo and Calo I swear I don’t!”

“Then don’t!” Locke bellowed, and something snapped inside of him. Thunder roared over him, and Locke stood to his full-height. “I am _not_ Lamor Acanthus!”

Sabetha opened her mouth to reply, and the sky cracked in half.

Pain, like needles, seared through his body, sharp and sudden, too quick for anyone to scream.

And then Locke Lamora’s heart stopped beating.

*

 

  **Thank you again for reading, and please do leave a comment! I'll be much more motivated to write and update if I know people are actually enjoying the fic. So please, tell me what you liked, and what you want to see more of!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for the reviews so far! Here's another chapter...the start of Lamor Acanthus' story.   
> I'll try to update tomorrow, but comments - as always - are appreciated in hurrying me along!

Chapter Three

 

_“Locke? Locke!? You hold on, you hear me? You do not get to die. You understand—you do not get to die. I have lost too damn much already—come on, Locke! Breathe! Breathe, the gods damn you! Just breathe. I’m not letting you go. I am not letting you go too.”_

 

*

Lamor Arcanthus arrived in Catchfire on the hottest day of the year. Camorr stank, rich with the smell of unwashed bodies, canal water and waste. Lamor sat, huddled in a gondola, foul with drink as they approached the inn.

“Are you sure this is where you’ll be stopping, sir?” His boatman was an ugly man with a yellow, toothy smile and very hairy ears. His breath was almost as rank as Lamor felt. “Nowhere else you’d rather be?”

“Can you turn back time?” Lamor asked.

The boatman was confused. “No, sir?”

“Can you shit healing crystals of immortality?”

“No…sir?”

“Can you relocate one of those nauseatingly high towers out into the middle of the sea where no one will find me?”

The boatmen just blinked.

“No?” Lamor cocked an eyebrow. “Then no, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. So let me off this damnable boat and allow me to pay you for your silence.”

The boatman muttered something which Lamor was sure was a curse, and brought the boat into dock. Lamor almost laughed—a curse? He didn’t really see how things could get any worse.

Stepping out of the boat, Lamor lifted his pack out, and payed the boatman, dropping him an few extra coins for his discretion. The man thanked him, eyeing Lamor’s leather pack even as he pushed the boat away.

 _Thieves, the lot of them._ Lamor let himself into the inn. He would stay just until he’d found a place he could establish himself. His clothes stuck to him, rivers of sweat racing down his muscles and into his shirt. He already hated Camorr, and he’d only been there for a day.

He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen Catchfire specifically, but it had everything he needed to work. It was one of the sea-facing islands of Camorr, and deeply impoverished. With those famous Camorri sharks in the harbour, disposing of bodies would be easy enough, and finding them—Lamor suspected, given the stench of the place—even easier.

He acquired himself a room, and ordered a bottle of wine to be brought up for him. He was still hung-over, but the only way he was going to stand the heat was to get drunk again. Lamor hated himself even as he poured the glass and downed it. She would be ashamed of him. Lamor pulled out a large silver locket and clicked it open. A lock of bright, beautiful hair sat inside. The key to his salvation, and his pain. A lump formed in Lamor’s throat, and he shut the locket quickly, holding it tightly to his forehead.

He would find a way. Lamor swore it. He would find a way.

 

*

 

Finding his own residence in Catchfire was easy. Lamor selected a sea-facing apartment, and quickly went about building a deep, secret basement beneath it. It was cooler down here than anywhere in the house, which Lamor needed.

He acquired his first body soon after. A hanged woman in her early twenties, freshly executed, but otherwise in good physical condition. He called her Elia, because he didn’t know her real name, and worked on her until even his magic couldn’t stop the rot from settling in.

His next cadaver, an older woman he named Anja, revealed no more the secrets of death than Elia had.

Lamor began to collect more and more bodies, leaving his cold basement only to fetch food, and—more importantly—drink.

Weeks went past. Lamor didn’t stir from his work, and kept his company with the dead.

*

It was a month before Lamor noticed the sickness. He pushed on, ignoring the frequent headaches and the rattling cough, and it was only when he woke up on the floor of the basement, his nose bleeding from the fall, that Lamor finally decided to see a physiker.

“It is an imbalance of the humours,” the physiker said. He was an old tottery man with eyebrows so thick and long they drooped over his eyes. “I recommend more rest, brisk walks twice a day—early morning and evening is best, drink goat’s milk mixed with cinnamon every day, and eat plenty of fish. Shark if you can get it. Water your wine and ensure you only clip your nails on penance day. Return to me in a week, and I will bleed you and check your waters for improvement.”

Grumbling, Lamor paid the man and promised to try and stick to his regiment.

“Water your wine, sir!” the physiker cried after him, as he left. “Water your wine!”

Lamor Acanthus did not water his wine. But he did take to walking along the waterfront twice a day. The Camorri phenomenon known as False Light was strangely beautiful, and after a day of working with corpses, Lamor was always glad of the fresh sea-air.

There was a low wall along the shore-line where he would always stop and sit, removing his locket. He never dared open it while he was outside, for fear of losing the all important curl of locks inside. The last part of her he had left. His beloved. His Esme. He kissed the locket, and as the false light faded, he promised her each night that he would bring her back. That he would see her again.

So long as he had that tiny bundle of hair, it was possible. The other bondsmagi had removed her body and burned it when they discovered what he’d planned to do, but it didn’t matter. He still had a piece of her, and with that piece he would be able to tether her soul to a new body. It was the key to new life. He was sure of it.

On the beach below him, a young boy, no more than four or five was squatting by the water, staring out. A rugged, skinny looking man appeared along the shore, and whistled sharply between his teeth. “Oy! Get ‘ere.”

The boy rose from his hunches, and shooting a quick look up at Lamor, as if begrudging the fact he had an audience, he scampered across to the thin man, who seized the boy by the hair on the back of his head, and yanked him away.

“You slackin’ off, eh? Useless piece of shit. I’ll show you what you get for that.”

The boy didn’t utter a sound as he was dragged away. Lamor watched the spectacle and thought of how easy it would be—how _frustratingly_ easy—to reduce that man to a quivering, mindless mess.

 _Don’t interfere,_ he reminded himself. He had to keep a low profile. No demonstrations of magic. No upsetting the locals. This was why he’d chosen Camorr—so that he’d get lost in the crowd. One hint that he was here, and Patience would be on his door-step, that look in her eye.

Lamor kissed the locket again, then rose to his feet and set off back home. He had a fresh body to work on, and a long night ahead of him.

*

 

It was nearing the end of the second month when Lamor finally made a small break-through. Spinning with exhausted excitement, he set out for his daily walk at false light, his mind still lingering in the basement he’d left behind. It was only a small success, hardly the complete answer to his mind-numbing problem, but it was a step in the right direction.

Optimism and good humour burned through him, and Lamor even found it in him to find Catchfire slightly less disgusting than he usually did.

He was just returning down the road from the shore, when a sudden scream broke him from his triumphant thoughts. Up ahead of him, dangling from a tall tree, the boy he’d seen on the beach was clutching desperately at a branch he’d clearly just tumbled from. He kicked and swung, shrieking as his precarious hold began to slip.

“Help!” he begged, his voice high, tight and wobbling furiously. “Help me! Please! Help!”

If the boy fell, he could easily break a leg. And if he fell wrong, it could just as easily be his head. Lamor rushed across and reaching up, he held out his arms.

“Let go,” he called, “I’ll catch you.”

The boy continued to wriggle and swing, sobbing. “N-no!” he stuttered. “I’ll fall!”

“I’ll catch you,” Lamor repeated, evening his tone. Calm and in control—Lamor had to show the boy there was nothing to be scared of. “It’s all right,” he promised.

“You’ll c-catch me?” the boy stuttered.

“I promise,” Lamor said, and his magic was already working, ready to secure the child, if his arms failed him. “Let go now.”

The boy looked down at Lamor with wide, petrified eyes. Lamor tried for a reassuring smile. The boy gulped, squeezed his eyes closed and let go.

Lamor caught him, as promised, and the boy latched onto him like a cat above a water barrel. Lamor was so startled by the strength of the boy’s grip, he automatically wrapped his arms around the boy’s back.

“There you go. All safe now. Honestly, what were you even doing in a tree so high?”

The boy continued to sob loudly, and Lamor patted him on the back. Children were children, no matter where you went. It felt nice to actually be handling something that was alive for once. The boy was so skinny and light in Lamor’s arms, the man could have easily lifted him up above his head.

It was a few more seconds before the boy let go, and Lamor allowed him to slip off to the ground. Immediately the boy seemed to be in a hurry to get away.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his eyes to the floor, and then he took off at a run and disappeared between two houses. Lamor shook his head.

_Shrieking one minute, embarrassed the next._

Lamor continued on his way, whistling for what felt the first time in years. Esme used to complain about his whistling—tell him he couldn’t stitch two coherent notes together if he tried.

 _“Utterly tone-deaf,”_ she said, and Lamor would burst into song just to prove her wrong…only to prove her right. It never failed to make her laugh.

It was only when he stepped inside the house and reached into his jacket pocket that Lamor realised something was wrong. He patted himself down with growing urgency, checking his other pockets, his waistband, the floor around his feet. Finally, as the wave of panic reached its summit, he worked out what had just happened.

The boy in the tree had just robbed him.

Both Lamor’s wallet and the locket were gone.

 

*

 

**Three guesses who the boy thief was...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Sarah-Beth Bradley! Thanks for the comments and support. :)

Chapter Four

 

It happened so quickly, Jean scarcely believed what he saw. One moment, Locke had been there, the next, as if struck down by the gods, lightening had split the sky and Locke was on the ground, convulsing.

Sabetha screamed, and Jean lurched forward, almost slipping in the mud. The rain bore down hard over him. He’d left his optics upstairs, but they would be useless now.

Sabetha reached Locke first, Jean sliding in a moment later. He gripped Locke by the shoulders and turned him over. Locke’s body shuddered and twisted unnaturally, and then went all together limp. Jean gripped him.

“Locke!” he bellowed. “Locke—oh gods!”

“The lightning—he was struck…” Sabetha gabbled, as if Jean hadn’t seen it for himself. “Inside—we have to get him inside!”

She immediately gripped him by the wrists and helped Jean heave Locke up into his arms. In the doorway of the inn, several people had gathered, attracted by the screams. Jean shoved past them, carrying Locke to the bar. Sabetha cleared a table with a swoop of her arm, and Jean lay Locke down.

“A physicker!” Sabetha shouted. “We need a physicker right now!” She pressed her head down to Locke’s chest. Her pale eyes were wide with terror. “I can’t hear his heart, Jean! He’s not breathing.”

“Pump his legs!” Jean ordered, and they swapped places. Jean threw himself down on Locke’s chest, pressing his ear so hard he would probably leave Locke bruised. Locke’s skin was cold and wet, his clothes shredded. Pressing a hand to Locke’s neck, Jean waited, and prayed. No pulse. No breath. No sign of life. “The gods damn you, Locke!”

Jean pushed himself back up, and bunching his hand into a fist, he struck down hard on Locke’s chest, just as he’d done those years ago after the Grey King had set them up. Locke was only half-drowned then…

“Somebody get a fucking physicker!” he bellowed over his shoulder. “Come on! Come on, you little bastard—you miserable little fuck! After everything we’ve been through, this is not how you get to die!”

“Jean,” Sabetha moaned.

“Come on, Locke!” Jean would beat the fire back into Locke’s breast if he had to. He’d done it before.  He struck harder, and when Locke didn’t respond, Jean lowered his mouth over Locke’s own and forced the air into his lungs. Locke’s chest rose and fell, as Jean breathed for him. Jean broke away.

“Come back,” he choked, pounding against Locke’s chest. “Come back. Locke.”

It had to be a sick joke. Aza Guilla had a poor sense of humour to spare Locke from drowning, from the Grey King, from the Acheron’s poison…Only to steal him away now.

Sabetha had stopped pumping Locke’s legs, looking sick. “Jean, he’s…Gods, he’s—”

“The _hell_ he is _!_ ” Jean lowered his mouth over Locke’s again. _Breathe. Breathe, you bastard._

 Locke did not respond beneath him. Jean pressed all his weight into Locke’s chest and felt the ribs crack. He didn’t stop. Locke could live with a few cracked ribs—he couldn’t live without a damned heart-beat.

“Come on then, Mr I’m-fucking-easy-to-reason-with—open your damned eyes! This is me reasoning with you!”

“Jean,” Sabetha breathed. Spectators in the inn were all murmuring among one another. Jean ignored them. Sabetha touched his arm. “Jean—”

“No!” Jean snapped at her. “You can give up on him if you want, but I won’t!”

Sabetha’s hand snapped back. “Don’t you dare—” she began.

“It’s threat time now!” Jean shouted down at Locke. “Wake up, Locke, or I’m going to tear your fucking head off and mount it on a damn spike! I’ll send you back to Karthain—I know how much you love it there!” Jean leant forward and pressed his mouth to Locke’s again. He pushed the air in, his hand winding its way into Locke’s hair. “If you go, I go.”

Locke’s body buckled. Jean sprang back as Locke sucked in a sharp breath. There was a collective gasp from the onlookers and Sabetha jumped back, slapping a hand to her mouth. Jean almost crumbled to the floor. Locke writhed on the table, and then went limp, chest heaving with sharp, deep breaths.

“Gods love you.” Jean collapsed against the table, and dragged Locke’s head up against his shoulder, holding him. The onlookers began to applaud. Jean felt Sabetha’s hands touch his back, and then she was hugging them both, one arm around Jean’s shoulder, the other around Locke’s back. Jean’s other hand snaked around her back, and the three remaining Gentlemen Bastards huddled together.

But even as Locke’s chest shuddered with life, and the physicker finally arrived, no matter how much anyone called him, Locke Lamora did not open his eyes.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone for the reviews! You're encouragement coerced me into getting off my arse and updating.  
> Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Five

 

Lamor hunted down the thief for three days, to no avail. The boy, who Lamor had spotted enough times on the beach or in the area seemed to have disappeared completely, and with each passing hour, Lamor felt sicker and angrier.

He went to the pawn and tinker shops, combing through the city, until he finally found the locket in a run-down brokers shop. The owner didn’t seem to give a damn that the locket was stolen.

“It’s mine!” Lamor hissed.

“Sure, and if I gave away all my merchandise to people who claimed that, I’d have to eat air. Pay for it, and you can have it back.” The shop-keeper, a stout woman with a mean look in her eyes and thick lips held the locket tantalisingly out of reach.

 _I could make you give that to me,_ Lamor thought viciously, but instead dug his hand into his pocket and threw down the money. Satisfied the shop-owner passed it over and Lamor snatched it, turning his back so that he could check the contents.

Heart in his mouth he clicked the locket open.

Empty. The hair was gone.

Lamor whirled around. “There was a lock of hair in this!” he said. “Where is it?”

“A lock of hair?”

“Yes! It’s very important—where is it?”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Locket came to me like that. No hair.”

Lamor felt a surge of magic charge up through him, anger almost boiling over. Immediately he caught himself, fighting it down. Someone would notice if he set the place alight, even if the area was called Catchfire. Taking in a deep breath, he leant over the counter, slamming another coin down.

“Who sold it to you?” he asked in a tight voice.

The woman eyed the coin. Lamor slapped down another.

“A boy,” she said slowly. “Came in three days ago. Said it belonged to his mother.”

“It didn’t—the little shit stole it from me. Do you have a name?” Another coin was put down against the table.

“No name, but he’s in often enough, selling off more things from his _mother._ ”

Lamor wanted to shake the woman. “Where does he live?”

“He’s an orphan, so far as I can tell. He lives wherever he chooses.”

Another coin. Lamor could keep at this all day if he had to. “I saw him with a man—tall, skinny, black hair, olive skin.”

“You just described half of Camorr.”

“He looked like he’d broken his jaw recently.”

The woman laughed at him. Lamor bit the inside of his cheek in frustration.

“He had a spot of skin here,” he pointed at his cheek, “darker than the rest.”

The woman’s mouth snapped shut. She eyed Lamor. “You have your locket back. Let things be.”

“Tell me who he is.”

“His name is Allesandro Porcella, he’s a garrista—one of Capa Barsavi’s men.”

Ah—the garristas and capas of Camorr. Lamor had heard enough about them, but with a name, he had very little to be afraid of from this Allesandro, or the infamous Capa Barsavi. “The boy is his?”

“All boys and girls on these streets are his. He claims them before the Thief-maker can. Those that survive long enough to grow balls or tits eventually join and become pezons to Barsavi, or they leave and never get seen again. The rest…” The woman made a hanging motion.

“This city is a disgrace.”

“You are from Karthain, yes?” The woman eyed him. “Don’t like it here, then go home.”

“Where can I find this Allesandro Porcella?”

She shook her head. “All for a lock of hair? Your funeral, I suppose. He runs out of the Portside Inn. You’ve been warned. I imagine I’ll be getting an identical piece to that locket back in here soon enough.”

 

*

 

The Portside inn was the sort of establishment people went to get a black eye. The windows were thrown open against the heat, and probably in an attempt to freshen the place, which stank of stale beer, urine and decay.

It was a wonder anyone would chose this as their place of business, but the drinks were cheap and the portions were generous. Lamor placed himself in a corner and observed the crowd. The so called Allesandro was lounged back in a chair, surrounded by dozen or so bullish looking men, who drank and joked, and broke into the occasional fight.

Beneath the table, Lamor worked his hands in a spell, ready to seize the mind of the garrista and lure him over to the bar. Before he could, the bar-keep slapped down a beer in-front of him.

“Take this and go,” he said.

“I didn’t order a drink,” Lamor said, patiently, letting his hands fall innocently to the side. The bar-man scrutinised him.

“It’s been paid for. Drink it and go.”

“I have business here.”

“No, you don’t.” The bar-man shoved something forward. An aged looking handkerchief. Carefully, and with a subtle flick of his hand, he flipped the folds of cloth back. Lamor’s heart stuttered. Esme’s hair.

“How—”

“Drink, and be on your way,” the barman repeated, and then retreated, leaving Lamor to pocket the handkerchief and its precious contents. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar figure watching him from the door. The boy. When Lamor turned his head, the child was already gone.

Lamor took a few draughts of the rank beer, threw an extra tip down, and left the inn. The moment he was outside, he started down the street, and slipped off toward the shore. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but sure enough, as he reached the waterfront, he found the boy in his usual place, squatting in the sand.

“You’ve got some real balls to you,” Lamor said, and the boy looked up. “Well, shouldn’t you be running away?”

“You didn’t go to the Yellow-Jackets, so you can’t,” the boy said simply. The words sounded strange coming from someone so small.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t still beat you into the next day.”

The boy rose up to his feet, suddenly a little wary. “I’m fast,” he said. “And protected.”

“By Allesandro?” Lamor snorted. “I know how you Camorri gangs run. He wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. Does he even know your name?”

The boy’s mouth pressed together. Lamor found himself unable to look away. There was something wilful in the boy’s eyes, which were a pale hazel, green from one angle, brown from the other, gold when the light hit them. He certainly wasn’t attractive or sweet, in that way some children were want to be—but there was something about him…

Something which reminded Lamor of Esme—something that sparked with energy and the desire to live, and fight, and conquer. He sighed, and sat down on the wall. “But you kept the hair?”

The boy shrugged.

“Why?”

Another shrug. “Just seemed…”

“Yes?”

“Important.”

“Meaningless to you though. Why did you return it?”

The boy didn’t reply. Lamor pieced it together.

“Ah—Allesandro doesn’t know you stole the locket, does he?”

The boy shook his head slowly.

“If he found out, I imagine he’d want a cut, and punish you for not presenting his share sooner.”

This time, a nod.

“So you kept the hair as insurance, in-case I tried to contact the so-called Right People.”

The boy shifted from one foot to the other, then crossed over to the stone-wall and squatted beneath it, next to Lamor’s legs.

“Well you led me on a merry fucking chase, I’ll give you that.” Lamor leant back. “What’s your name, then?”

The boy only stared out to the water, hugging his knees. Lamor snorted.

“You’re surprisingly smart, for someone so young. Where I’m from, people don’t share their names at all, unless they really know a person. You Camorii tend to throw yours about.”

At this, the boy looked around, a spark of curiosity illuminating his face. “You don’t use names?”

“We do—just not our own. Not the ones we were born with. We use pet names, titles I suppose—we call then grey names.”

“What’s yours?”

“I’ve had a few.” Lamor paused and considered whether to share anything with this small thief. “Do you have a grey name? Something people call you, which your mother never did.”

The boy blinked, and then opened his mouth and unleashed a barrage of insults so vulgar Lamor’s eyes almost watered. “Where did someone your age learn _those_ words?”

“It’s what they call me.”

“Fuck me,” Lamor said, and there was no point censoring himself—the boy knew every slur under the sun. “Well I can’t call you that.”

“Why do you need to call me anything?”

“Why? Because I’ve got you in my pocket now, don’t I?” Lamor said. “And it might be I need someone with your skills to help me in my work.”

“I’m not working for you.”

“You are, unless you want me to go pay a visit to Allesandro.”

“I gave you back the hair!”

“You stole it in the first place.” Despite everything, Lamor was strangely enjoying himself. “I’ll pay you,” he said, “Hells, I’ll even feed you—you look like a starving monkey. But you follow my directions, and you don’t tell anyone. Agreed?”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

“No. So, agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Fine, so what shall I call you?”

The boy shrugged, and Lamor sighed, rolling his eyes. He looked around him for inspiration, his hand subconsciously reaching up to the lock of hair still safely in his pocket. An idea sparked. “Locke,” he said.

The boy raised his eyebrows. “Huh?”

“Locke. I’ll call you Locke. After my father. You’re all closed off, so it works fine for you.”

“Locke…” The boy tried the name, rolling it around in his mouth, his eyebrows now pinched. Slowly they relaxed, and he beamed. “I like it.” He stood, and with a jump, scrabbled up onto the wall beside Lamor. “What do I call you then?”

“I suppose you can call me Lamor.”

“Lamora?” The Camorri accent curled around the name strangely.

“LamoR,” Lamor corrected. “Or Lamora if it’s easier—honestly, I don’t care.”

“What’s your first name?” the boy dubbed Locke asked.

“That is my first name.”

“Oh.” Locke blinked and then sniggered. Lamor shook his head. Bloody Camorri. “So what do you want me to do for you? Steal stuff?”

“No, you dirty little creature. I’m going to ask you to buy things for me. Legally.”

“What kind of things?”

“The sort of things that would get a person like me noticed,” Lamor said simply. “You, on the other hand? Who’d look twice at you?”

Locke kicked him in the ankle and Lamor laughed.

Later he would realise it was the first time he’d laughed since Esme died.

 

*

**Thanks for reading! I will try to update soon. Once again, comments are super appreciated and really help me along!**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

The physicker’s assessment of Locke wasn’t encouraging. “He is unlikely to wake up.”

“What do you mean he’s _unlikely to wake up_?” Jean demanded in a deadly whisper. He hadn’t slept all night, his nerves pulled tight. Sabetha sat on the edge of the bed, feeding Locke sips of water in drops, so that he wouldn’t choke.

The physicker sighed. “I heard how you saved him—and as admirable as that was, I’m afraid the fact he has yet to open his eyes does not bode well. Cases such as these are rare, but not unheard of, and the prognosis at this stage is grave. In the small likelihood that he does wake, he may well not be the man you know.”

“What does that mean?” Sabetha took over from Jean, who was one second away from grabbing the physicker by the head and breaking him against a wall.

“It means he is likely severely brain-damaged. The scars are not simply on the outside, my friends.”

Jean was forced to look across at Locke. A poultice had been applied across the strange, intricate scar that branched from Locke’s shoulder, down his chest to his naval. The smell of burnt flesh was still strong in Jean’s nose. Jean didn’t want to imagine the damage on the inside. It made him feel sick.

“Can you do anything?”

“For the time? Nothing more,” the physicker said. “If he wakes, I can offer something for the pain. If he doesn’t wake, then…”

“We’ll call upon you soon. Thank you for your time,” Jean said, a little curtly, and paid the man. The physicker tipped his hat, and quietly left the room.

Jean crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, opposite Sabetha who was gently brushing Locke’s hair out of his eyes.

“Do you think he’ll wake up?” she asked quietly.

“He will, if he knows what’s good for him,” Jean huffed. Sabetha offered him a watery smile. He couldn’t return it. She wasn’t acting like herself—the Sabetha Jean knew was strong, sure, stubborn…He barely recognised her now. Had Patience’s words really spooked her so badly? Why did Lamor Achanthus scare her so much?

And why in the hells did it even matter now, when Locke was lying in this sorry state? Surely she could put it to the side for a little while. Jean decided not to engage with the subject—he was primed for a fight and didn’t want to have one with her.

“You have to consider the possibility—”

“No, I don’t.”

“Jean,” Sabetha sighed, “you know I want him to wake up. Despite everything…Gods, you know I care about him, don’t you?”

“If you cared, you would have stayed.” The words were out of Jean’s mouth before he could stop them. He’d told himself he wouldn’t get into this, had promised not to interfere, but he had no patience left in him. He was rubbed raw with worry.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Sabetha said softly.

“No, it isn’t. You could have stayed, you chose to leave. Me? I stayed. I’ve stayed through it all. I’ve seen him at his worse—worse than this. So don’t tell me to ‘consider the possibility’—I’m not considering anything.”

Sabetha was silent for a moment. “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”

“Forgive you?” Jean snapped his head up. He immediately bit down on his words. “Don’t provoke me right now. I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Well I do.” Sabetha stood up. “There’s something you want to say. There’s something you’ve been itching to say since Karthain. So let it out, Jean. Lay it flat. I’ll take whatever you have to throw at me.”

Jean actually laughed. “Fine!” he stood. “Sabetha, you are my family, and gods I will always love you—but you are a selfish, arrogant, self-centred ingrate and I am fed up with your bullshit! You broke something—something sacred, and I don’t know if it’ll ever be mended. Not properly.”

Sabetha didn’t even flinch. Anger like fire burned in her eyes. “Gods, you’re angrier for him than he ever was. Jean Tannen, Locke Lamora’s ever faithful guard-dog. They’ll tell stories of you—a truer friend could never be found,” she spat.

“For fuck’s sake, Sabetha—it’s not a damn competition!” Jean began to shake. “You think I don’t love you just as much?”

“Don’t even pretend that you do, Jean! You’re—you’re an extension of him. His literal right arm. The pair of you have always been inseparable—closer with each other than you were with the twins, with Chains…With me.”

Jean crossed the room, yanking the curtains open. Yellow sunlight slipped through the window, the storm long gone. Jean breathed heavily. “I was just as loyal to you, Sabetha,” he said softly. “But you expected our love—you were thorny, and distant and treated our affection with disregard, can you blame us that we followed Locke? That I followed Locke. Him, I could kick in the arse—Locke I _did_ kick in the arse, but you? You were fucking untouchable.”

“It was different for me! I was a girl—the _only_ girl!” Sabetha spat.

“Are you telling me you would have been closer and more open if I’d been born with tits?” Jean shouted back, and then began to laugh hysterically. “Bigger tits than I had,” he corrected.

Sabetha blinked, and then too began to giggle. The pair of then stared at each other, tittering giddily like school children. Their anger was heavy in the air, brewing a personal storm in the room, but Jean wasn’t sure if he wanted to shout anymore or cry.

Sabetha leant back against the wall. “I was scared, Jean,” she said. Her hand went to her hair. “The only way I knew how to defend myself…Gods, I swear I didn’t start out like that. Once, I think I was kind. Gentle. None of us can really afford to be that though, can we?”

Jean nodded. Despite it all he understood. He knew the danger that Sabetha faced as a woman, and even more for the red hair she had spent years hiding. She was beautiful, had always been beautiful, and subsequently had always had eyes on her. And so she’d worn the only armour available to her, and had grown into a fierce, thorny flower that punished anyone who tried to pluck it.

“I admired you,” Jean said. “We all did.”

“But it was always Locke, wasn’t it?”

“It couldn’t be you,” Jean said simply.

“Even though Locke’s record as a garrista ended in nothing but disaster, and death?” Sabetha cocked an eyebrow.

Fresh rage came surging up through Jean. “Don’t you dare put Calo and Galdo on Locke. You weren’t there—you don’t know how it was. Do you know what the Grey King did to him, Sabetha? Did he tell you?”

“I heard he cut Locke up like a physicker.”

“Before that—he tricked Locke, set him up to die. Locke could have saved himself—could have spared himself the pain—but it would have put us at risk _._ So he faced it. Alone. Barsavi’s men beat him within an inch of his life, than sealed him in a barrel of horse-piss to drown. You think this is the first time I’ve had to start Locke’s heart?”

Sabetha paled.

“What would you have done, Sabetha? Huh? What have you ever sacrificed for us? You think you would have made a better garrista? Maybe. But for the Gentlemen Bastards? For our family? No. I don’t think you ever loved any of us as much as we loved you.”

“That’s not fair,” Sabetha whispered. “And your argument is sentimental and ridiculous. It didn’t have to end in sacrifice. You could have used your brains—you could have been smart about it!”

“Hah!” Jean’s laugh came out like a dagger. “Yes—fine! Maybe you would have come up with some clever scheme. Easy to claim that, in retrospect. But you know what? You’re not nearly as clever as you think—or the Bondsmagi would have never had you.”

“You needed them too!”

“Because Locke was willing to die for me again. Why did you need them for? Pick the wrong pocket?” Jean smacked his hand against the wall, which shuddered. Sabetha glared.

“Don’t act like you have a perfect record—I heard what happened with the Acheron.”

“Oh, Locke’s fucked up! We both have!” Jean threw his hands into the air. “The way I see it, you’re _both as dumb as each other_.”

“And what does that make you, Jean?”

“A faithful fucking idiot,” Jean snapped.

Sabetha breathed, as if trying to reign in her temper. “You want to know the reason they died—”

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

“—It’s because you were all faithful fucking idiots! Your dependence on each other, Locke’s attachment to me—Chains did this to us. He tied us all together, and I was the only one smart enough to learn to live without you all. Because this—” she waved her hand at Locke, “this isn’t healthy—you can’t even imagine him dying, you’re so tied together. Honestly Jean, without Locke, I think you’d just fall apart.”

“Yes!” Jean said. “Yes, you’re probably right. At this point, why should I pretend? But if you think I’m angry at you on behalf of Locke, you’re even dumber than I thought, Sabetha.”

“Then who are you angry for, Jean?”

“I’m angry for me! And I’m fucking furious with both of you for putting me in this situation!”

“Jean—”

“Don’t interrupt me!” Jean roared. “I’m sick of this! I have lost enough! My parents, Chains, Galdo, Calo, Bug, Ezri, _you—_ no more! You want to know why I am so loyal? Why I won’t talk about death—won’t consider it? Because he’s the last one. He’s the last damn thing I have in this world, and I will not lose him too! I _cannot_ , do you understand?”

Jean wasn’t sure when the tears had started to bubble up, but suddenly they were there, hot and suffocating, his throat closing around sobs. Sabetha’s expression cracked, and then she crossed the room in three long strides, and was holding him. Jean wept into her shoulder, shuddering with the force of it.

Sabetha’s hand ran up and down his spine. “You’re not alone,” she said. “And he’s not all you have left. I’m here.”

“But you’ll leave,” Jean choked. “Because I can’t change it…the way we are—him and me.”

Sabetha made a small noise, like a whine. “Oh, Jean,” she pushed him away, and there were tears streaming down her own face. “I can’t change the way I am with him either…And that’s why I have to leave.”

“Why?” Jean moaned.

“Because I think…” Sabetha swallowed. “No. I know…I knew it the moment I saw the portrait. Not of him, but of her—”

“He doesn’t love you because he’s the reincarnation of a bondsmagi—it’s more than just your hair! And even if it _did_ start with the hair, does that erase all the years—” Jean started, but Sabetha pressed a hand to his lips.

“Jean,” she groaned, “I have to leave, because the woman in the portrait, Jean…That woman, she was my mother.”

Jean went stock-still. Sabetha squeezed her eyes closed.

“The reason I left in Karthain, the reason I can’t bear to look at Locke right now…Jean. Lamor Acanthus is my father.”

 

 *

**And on that bombshell, I shall try to update tomorrow! Once again, comments are so, so appreciated. Thank you!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, I had a really terrible day which really threw me off balance. Still recovering from some of the events, so haven't had a chance to be very creative.
> 
> As always, thank you for those comments - they genuinely cheered me up and spurred me on.

Chapter Seven

 

Lamor noticed it one night when he let Locke into the house to eat. The boy had gone to the market, under specific instructions, wearing a servant’s livery so as not to stand out, and returned with a number of items for Lamor’s spell-work.  

“No one paid any attention to me,” Locke said. “It was great.”

“You better not have stolen anything while you were there,” Lamor warned mildly, examining the items which had been bought, while Locke ate.

Locke didn’t reply, suddenly wholly engaged with his dinner. Lamor sighed, shaking his head. Locke grinned into his food, and kept eating. It was a simple affair of shark soup, but Locke was gobbling it down like it was his first meal of the day…Which it might well have been. Lamor watched him.

“Come by tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll need more things. You can have breakfast first.”

Locke’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Yes. If you’re here, you’re out of trouble—though barely.” Lamor had to stop himself from laughing as he caught sight of Locke’s food-spattered face. Leaning over with a napkin, he cleaned the corner of the boy’s mouth. The back of his finger brushed Locke’s cheek and he felt it.

Magic.

Lamor’s expression must have changed, because Locke froze.

“What?” he asked.

Lamor recovered himself, his mind whirling. The boy had magic. He was still too young for it to blossom, but it would start to present itself in due course. And when it did, it wouldn’t be long before Karthain heard of it. They were always quick to snap up budding sorcerers. Lamor had to come up with a plan, or Patience would be on his doorstep all too soon.

 “I may have to ask you to go out again, to the night market,” Lamor lied, and Locke’s face fell. “I’m not sure yet—it depends on the quality of what you brought me.”

“I got everything like you asked,” Locke grumbled.

“You did, but needs must. Here, I’ll tell you what—you look tired, so after you’ve eaten, you can sleep in the other room for a while. I have a comfortable enough chaise-lounge in there. I’ll wake you up if I need you to go back.”

Locke considered this, and while he did, Lamor opened up another bottle of wine. Locke wrinkled his nose.

“You know you stink,” he said.

“Thank you, you little runt—I’ll be sure not to take your worthless opinion into consideration.”

“You drink too much,” Locke said.

“Oh? And what does a four year old know about that? Are you four? Five? Gods, I can’t tell.”

Locke didn’t reply. Questions like that often brought out a stoniness from him. Lamor eyed him, and noticed faint bruising behind Locke’s ear, down his neck. He nodded to it.

“Who did that?”

“Someone.”

“It wasn’t a fucking pigeon then—that’s a relief.”

Locke giggled, and Lamor poured him a small glass of wine, watered it slightly, and slid it across the table. “There, you can find out what all the fuss is about yourself—ah!” he drew the glass away before Locke could take it. “Tell me who did that to you first.”

Locke scowled. “One of Allesandro’s men.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“They hurt you often?”

Locke stared at Lamor with a funny expression. “I stay out of the way, mostly.”

This wasn’t the answer Lamor wanted, but he knew he was pushing his luck. He let go of the wine glass and let Locke take it.

“They say you’re an orphan,” he said, as Locke took a sip of the sweet wine. “What happened to your parents?”

“Who’s hair is it?” Locke replied instantly. "In the locket?"

“Oh, you’re a smart little bugger,” Lamor huffed. “All right—I’ll tell you the truth, if you tell me.”

“Fine,” Locke said.

“Promise—no lies. Or the gods’ll strike you down.”

Locke slowly put the glass back onto the table, his eyes a little wide. “Fine,” he said. “No lies. You first.”

“It belonged to my wife. She died a few months ago.”

“Oh,” said Locke. “Sorry.”

The reaction was strangely refreshing. Locke seemed to have some idea about death, but he was still too young to really grasp it. He understood, but he didn’t really _understand._ Not yet, anyway. Hopefully not for a good long while.

“You’re turn,” Lamor prompted.

“I don’t remember him. I think I remember her. Mostly I remember the rats.”

“Rats?”

Locke shrugged—his go-to response, when he didn’t have the words.

“I was born in the prison,” he said. “I think she hanged. Or died. Or just left me there. I don’t know.”

Lamor stared, overcome all at once by a sudden reminder that he was talking to a child. A _child._ He reached forward, and dropped his hand onto Locke’s head. Locke blinked at him quizzically. Did the boy even remember what it was to be loved? To be held, tucked into bed, spoiled with affection?

“Lamor?” Locke said, and Lamor removed his hand.

“Finish your food,” he said. “I’ve seen fatter alley cats than you. Then go get some sleep.”

Locke obeyed without argument, if only because the boy wasn’t stupid enough to pass-up on the free meal, and a safe place to sleep for an hour or two. The wine took quick enough effect, and by the time Lamor looked in on Locke, sprawled across the chaise-lounge, the boy was fast-asleep.

Slipping his shoes off, and hoping the wine would drown Locke’s uncannily sharp senses, Lamor tip-toed into the room and stopped in-front of the boy.

“Locke?” he whispered.

The boy didn’t stir. _Good._ Lamor knelt down beside, and holding his hands over Locke’s head, he began to twist a circlet of rope into an intricate pattern, crossing it over his fingers. Quietly he weaved the web, his tongue pressing over silent words as the sharp sting of magic filled the air. Locke’s eyebrows furrowed and he twitched in his sleep. The magic hit a crescendo, and then the spell descended on Locke, snapping around him.

Locke’s eyes leapt open. He sat bolt upright, just in-time for Lamor to take his shoulder, the rope vanishing into thin air. “Easy there.”

“What happened?” Locke asked, eyes wide. He searched the room, sweat prickling over his skin. Lamor squeezed his arm.

“I was trying to wake you—you must have been having a nightmare.”

“A nightmare? No, it felt like…I thought…”

“You’re awake now,” Lamor comforted, his stomach twisting guiltily. “I don’t need you to go to the market tonight, but it’s late. Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

“No,” Locke said.

“Then you should stay the night. Here, lie back down—I’ll fetch you a blanket and a pillow.”

Still quivering slightly, Locke lay back down, nervous energy trickling through his exhausted body. His eyes kept searching the room. Lamor’s guilt and shame doubled.

Later, he promised himself, he’d lift the magic he’d thrown over Locke, and explain everything. For now, it was better for everyone concerned if Locke’s natural magic was bound and sealed away, just until Lamor’s work was finished—just so no one would find them.

When it was all done, Lamor would take Locke to Karthain himself to be trained.

Lamor fetched a blanket and threw it over Locke. “Get some rest, Locke,” he murmured.

Locke pulled the blanket around him, his face still pinched with uncertainty. The boy could sense something was wrong, but he was too young, too inexperienced to name it. Lamor sat down beside Locke, and rested his hand on Locke’s head.

“Go to sleep.”

Locke closed his eyes, and after a few minutes, he relaxed, drifting back off to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

 

They ended up on the bed together, either side of Locke, who was still as death, his breathing long and deep. Jean kept the back of his fingers pressed to Locke’s wrist, while Sabetha held his other hand.  For a brief moment, it felt like they were children again. Jean wished they were. He felt like he had the whole weight of the world bearing down on him.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and even though neither of them had spoken for near an hour now, the conversation hadn’t died. “Are you sure she was your mother?”

Sabetha sighed, rolling onto her back, her hand still in Locke’s. “I was born in Karthain—that much I remember. When I was two, I was sent to live with my Aunt and Uncle, who live in Lashain. My mother would come and visit me, but I rarely saw my father. The only thing I remember of him was his voice…And this presence…” Sabetha shook her head, as if to clear it. “My mother was fierce, but also frail…Her visits became less and less frequent. Then, the next thing I knew my aunt and uncle told me we were leaving for Camorr. It was weeks before they told me that she’d died.” Sabetha swallowed. “I have one distinct memory of her—appearing in my doorway. She was the most beautiful person I’d ever known, Jean…I wanted to be her, but stronger.”

“I’m sorry, Sabetha,” Jean murmured.

Sabetha turned back to face him. “My aunt and uncle caught sick on the journey across to Camorr, and died shortly upon arriving. A yellow-jacket took pity on me, and took me straight to the Thief-Maker—he knew what would happen to me if I was left alone.

“I used to dream that someone would come for me—my father. Later, I realised I must have been a love-child, a bastard who was tucked away out of thought and out of mind. I wasn’t important enough for anyone to look for—at least nobody alive. I gave up on dreams of being taken home, and began to focus on getting there myself. Before I knew it though, Karthain, Lashain…They stopped being my home, and Camorr became my hunting ground.

“You know the rest. The Thief-Maker sold me off to Chains, and here we are. I stopped thinking about my parents, stopped wondering, right until I saw that damned painting…And now…Gods, Jean, it’s a mess.”

Jean closed his eyes, and reaching out his other hand, over Locke’s chest, he rested it on Sabetha’s shoulder. “I see why you left,” he rumbled softly. “The second time,” he added.

Sabetha blinked her eyes, which were bright, and laughed weakly. “Jean…what do I do? This is all…twisted.”

“It’s certainly…complicated,” Jean sighed. “But it’s a mess for another day, all right?”

Sabetha looked like she wanted to argue, but instead she nodded, staring into Locke’s face. “I keep waiting,” she murmured, “for him to open his eyes.”

“He will,” Jean assured. “And then he’ll swear at us. Complain. Try to get out of bed and wind up on the floor.”

“You seem to have some experience with this.”

“Too much. Too much experience.”

That set them both giggling again. Jean’s head was thundering, and he was so tired he couldn’t shake the unnerving sensation that all of this was a bizarre and uncomfortable dream. Sabetha squeezed his hand.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” she said. “About whether you’d ever forgive me.”

“For leaving us in Camorr?” Jean sighed. “You never told me why you left.”

“Because…” Sabetha broke off. “Because I felt suffocated, I suppose. And I think…No, I know I was jealous,” she admitted. “I hated the fact, but I couldn’t change it. Maybe Locke was the right choice to be priest, to be garrista…Maybe I’ve always been too vain. It’s my undoing. But I couldn’t stand it. I wanted more. I wanted independence. I wanted to get out of Camorr, and forge a new world.  And Locke? Locke wanted everything to stay the same. And I knew there was no place for me in that world—there had never been. I never fit. I never truly belonged. And I was right Jean, because when I left, it didn’t make a damn bit of difference, did it? You never needed me.”

“You self-centred idiot,” Jean groaned, “of course it made a damned difference. There was a hole in us that no one else could fill. We carried on, we remade ourselves—Locke got crazier and crazier, but you can be damn sure we put a cup out for you. We carried on, yes—because we were used to you going away…But don’t ever think we weren’t waiting for you to come back.”

Sabetha swallowed. “Thank you for saying that.”

Jean nodded. “I do forgive you,” he said. “But I don’t think I’ll ever fully trust you again. Because I don’t think you ever fully trusted any of us.”

“And there it is.” Sabetha smiled, raised Jean’s hand, and pressed her lips to it. “The difference between Locke and I.” Sabetha regarded Jean fondly. “He should have fallen inlove with you, Jean. Life would have been much simpler.”

“For who exactly?” Jean grumbled, and Sabetha laughed.

Between them, Locke didn’t stir, oblivious to their hushed words and confessions.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am getting unreasonably attached to Lamor, considering he isn't even really a character yet in the actual books. :p
> 
> Thank you again for reviews! Please do share your thoughts and feelings with me regarding the work, or the books in general!

Chapter Nine

 

The boy who went by Locke imagined that _this_ was what happiness felt like. He’s been indentured to the services of Lamor for near a month now, and for the first time in his living memory, he didn’t feel hungry.

He’d taken nicely to the name Locke—being Locke was liberating, interesting—like a new skin he could hide within. Lamor might have been one of the strangest people Locke had ever met, but he was nice enough, his drinking habits aside. Locke had no idea what the man wanted with the number of increasingly bizarre and ridiculous things he sent Locke out to buy, but he’d never beaten Locke, never tried anything funny with him, and always fed him well. That, Locke decided, was enough to excuse Lamor’s strange retail habits.

Besides which, Lamor saw Locke in a way that no one else did—perhaps because he’d seen both sides of Locke’s thievery. Locke enjoyed being underestimated by people, enjoyed the opportunity childhood gave…But it didn’t work on Lamor. Now that Lamor had seen the truth of him, it was like Locke couldn’t lie to him anymore. Initially, Locke had hated that.

Now it was strangely comfortable.

Locke had just finished with his latest chore—the purchase of a candelabrum that was almost too heavy for Locke to carry—and was returning cautiously to Lamor’s house. The streets were dark, false-light having long faded. Lamor would have come back from his habitual walk by now. Locke had warned him that keeping to a strict schedule made him more of a target for thieves. The punctuality of Lamor’s habit had given Locke the chance to steal from him in the first place.

_“Are you trying to tell me you put the whole thing together—that you were only pretending to fall from that tree to lure me in?”_

_“I wasn’t pretending to fall—I would have, if you hadn’t stepped in. But it wasn’t an accident.”_

_“You’ve a wickedly cunning mind for such a tiny thing. Put it to better use, would you?”_ Lamor had said, but there had been a sheen of amused admiration in his eyes which Locke had rather enjoyed.

Looking carefully to make sure the coast was clear—Locke knew he was just as easy a target as Lamor, not for ignorance, but size and age—Locke crossed the open road and made it to the door of Lamor’s house. He knocked, and waited, looking cautiously over his shoulder. Lamor had picked a remote spot, for Catchfire, but it was still plenty dangerous.

No one answered the door. Getting impatient, Locke took out the key he’d stolen from Lamor two weeks ago—the man _still_ hadn’t realised—and let himself in. The hallway was dark, but there were alchemical globes lit in dining room. Locke eased his way in, shouting up the stairs. “Lamor! I’ve got your dumb candle thing.”

There was no reply. Wondering if maybe Lamor was still out, or asleep, Locke decided to go and see if the man had left any food out for him. Placing the candelabrum down on the floor, he padded silently into the dining room.

Turning the corner, Locke’s stomach summersaulted and he froze.

Lamor was strewn out on the floor, a broken dish lying beside him. Locke lurched forward and scurried to Lamor’s side. He shook Lamor’s shoulder.

“Lamor? Lamor!”

Beneath his tiny hands, Lamor stirred and groaned. Locke looked around, searching for evidence of drink. He’s seen enough men pass out from wine and liquors, but this didn’t seem to be the culprit this time. Lamor’s eyes flittered open and he squinted.

“Locke?” he mumbled, and then hunched tightly around himself, breaking into a fit of coughs. Locke sprang back, then crept slowly in again. He rested his hand on Lamor’s back, while Lamor hacked and rasped. Finally, Lamor stopped, dropping his head back against the wooden floor, breathing harshly. In the dim light, Locke could see his eyes were swollen, his lips strangely red, blood spattered on the floor.

“Lamor?” Locke inched a little closer, eyes wide. Lamor’s gaze was unfocused.

“I appear,” Lamor’s voice rattled, “to be a little unwell…”

“What should I do?”

“Physicker.” Lamor’s eyes slid closed. “Give him…this…tell him to come at once.” With laboured movements, Lamor dipped his hand into his pocket and passed Locke a White Iron Crown. “Don’t…lose it.”

Locke held the coin, his heart thundering in his chest. So much money, pressed into one pale-silver disk. He mounted to his feet, and took off at a run, leaving the house.

He was halfway down the road when everything caught up with Locke. Lamor was sick—Lamor might very well die. Which meant no more work for Locke. Which meant no more food for Locke.

He slowed down for half a moment. He had Lamor’ key, and his Crown. If no one knew Lamor was dead, Locke could keep living in the house. He could use the crown to buy himself new and expensive clothes, then sneak into the upper circles…Convince a noble family to adopt him, or something like that…

But if Locke brought the physicker to Lamor now, he would lose that crown, and he would lose that opportunity…And if Lamor still died, despite it all, then it would have been for nothing. The moment Lamor was dead, the Duke’s Ghouls would be in, and then Allesandro would get his pick of what was left in the house…

Locke came to a stop.

The most obvious solution was to keep the Crown.

Locke’s feet began to move again, the coin clutched tight in the fist of his hand…

 

*

 

“Bedrest!” the physicker announced. “You are singularly unwell, young man, and will not be leaving this room in a hurry.”

Lamor lay in bed, his face flushed with a feverish heat. Locke watched from the corner, silent. Lamor caught him looking, and rolled his eyes when the Physicker’s back was turned. Locke’s spirts lifted. Men who were near death didn’t make stupid faces, did they?

Lamor had still been on the floor when Locke had brought the physicker back. Together, the pair of them had managed to coax Lamor up and get him into his room. There, the physicker had begun a thorough and invasive examination, which Locke had watched with a mixed feeling of interest and disgust.

“I can’t stay in bed,” Lamor said.

“You will, unless you intend to find yourself face-down on the floor again. Your condition has worsened since I saw you last—have you been following my instructions?”

“To the letter.”

“I wonder that, young man. Perhaps your…” The physicker waved in Locke’s direction, trailing off expectantly.

“My apprentice,” Lamor said, and Locke got a sudden, odd thrill.

_Apprentice?_

The physicker’s eyebrows shot up. “Isn’t he a little…young? And what, if I may ask, is the business of which you plan to teach him?”

“He’s young, but sharp. And I don’t see how my work has any bearing on your ability to diagnose me.”

“To the contrary, sir! It may have every bearing—what you do with your time, what you handle, who you mingle with…Had I some idea of these facts, I may yet be able to offer you better treatment.”

Lamor seemed to consider this. “I am an alchemist,” he said. “But I would thank you, sir, to keep that between us. I have a rival who has been vying to steal my work these last few months. Catchfire is my sanctuary against his thieving hands—” Lamor cut himself off with another hacking cough. The physicker dragged him forward and pounded him on the back until he was done.

“Hiding among a den of thieves, to protect your work from being stolen—an interesting philosophy.”

“It’s worked so far. So pray do not speak of me to anyone.”

“You have my silence bought, sir. Boy,” the physicker ushered Locke across, “tell me, has your master been taking regular walks?”

“Every day, sir,” Locke piped up. “Along the shore. At false-light.”

“Good, and is he eating shark?”

“We have it for dinner most nights.”

“And he is watering his wine?”

Locke could feel Lamor’s eyes bearing into him. “My master rarely drinks,” Locke lied. “And when he does, it’s more watered down than the rat-piss served at Portside.”

“Mind your manners, Locke,” Lamor said, barely managing to hide his smile before the physicker turned back to him.

“In which case, I can only advise that you resist working for a few days. Eat more shark—twice a day, and root vegetables; I find parsnip to be naturally healing. No spice—it can provoke the humours to imbalance. A little salt is permissible, but pepper should be removed from your kitchen, if you have any!  Should your fever rise, place onions on your feed, and chew garlic. And I warn you from bathing sir—freshening of the face, hands, wrists is allowed, but full submersion is out of the question. Follow these instructions, and you shall be quite well.”

“Indeed, I am certain the accumulative stench of me after a few days will quicken my resolve to get better imminently.”

The physicker huffed, and rose from the bed. “Well, if that is all you require of me, I shall retire home. Have your apprentice come by if your symptoms worsen. I shall drop in tomorrow morning to re-examine you.”

“I await with great anticipation. Locke, show the physicker to the door.”

Locke did as he was told, and when the physicker was gone, he fetched a bottle of wine and brought it up to the Lamor. Lamor laughed when he saw it.

“I must be really ill,” he said taking it from Locke, “because I don’t even want this.”

“Are you dying?” Locke asked.

“Always.” Lamor took a swig of the wine, despite his previous statement. “That’s the only promise in life, Locke. Death. Nothing else is guaranteed—not love, not riches, not fortune or sadness.” Lamor exhaled heavily, resting back in his pillow. His eyes closed. “It occurred to me, Locke, after you left and I was lying on that floor, that I’d just handed a veritable fortune to the same thief who stole my purse and my locket.”

“I guess,” said Locke. Lamor peaked an eye open.

“Were you tempted?” he asked. “To run off with it?”

“No.”

“Ah—you’re lying.” Lamor actually smiled. Locke felt pale. “Don’t look so miserable, Locke. Of course you were tempted. It would have been a damn sensible thing _for_ you to have taken that coin and left me. But you didn’t.”

“I…” Locke pulled himself up onto a chair next to Lamor’s bed, kicking his little legs. “I couldn’t.” His voice dipped into a breathy whisper. “I didn’t want you to die.”

“More like you knew I’d be well enough to come after you, you little bastard,” Lamor chided, but it was amicable.

Locke didn’t say anything. He could have disappeared. Hells, with a crown he could have gotten out of Catchfire and out of Allesandro’s reach. Lamor would have never been able to find him, and both of them knew it.

“Are you really an alchemist?” Locke changed the subject.

“Not quite…I’m something a little different,” Lamor said. “And I’ll tell you about it…But not now.”

“When?”

Lamor opened both of his eyes and sighed, stretching. Sweat was gathered on his forehead, and he looked pale. “When my work is done, I’ll be leaving Catchfire.”

It was like a sudden and forceful blow to the chest. “Oh,” was all Locke could manage.

“It probably won’t be for a few months yet. Gods, maybe years? But I don’t intend to stay.”

Locke wasn’t sure what to say, so he kept silent, staring down at his hands. Lamor was leaving—not now, maybe, but eventually. Locke should have realised—of course Lamor wouldn’t be here forever. Locke knew he was different from the rest of the people in Catchfire. This was always temporary.

“When I go, I’d like you to come with me.”

Locke’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I want you to come with me, Locke,” Lamor repeated. “Unless you have a pressing desire to stay in Catchfire?”

“Come with you?”

“How many times do I need to repeat myself?” Lamor chuckled.

“But—but why?” Locke blurted. At Lamor’s confused expression, he clarified. “Why take me with you?”

“Because I can trust you, Locke. You proved that today.”

“You mean…this was a test? You were faking?” Locke asked, dismayed.

Lamor laughed, and it ended in another terrible bout of coughing. Flecks of blood touched the sheets. “Boy, do I look like I’m faking?”

“No,” Locke admitted.

“It wasn’t a test,” Lamor said. “But it was…informative. It helped me realise…I might not be the only one forming an attachment here.”

“Attachment?”

Lamor pulled out his locket, clicking it open to reveal the lock of hair. “I have been keeping company with the dead since my wife passed…It’s a miserable business. You’re the only person I speak to on a regular basis, the only one I see…And despite your thieving little nature, I’ve grown rather fond of you.”

Locke bit his lip. “You really want me to come along with you?”

“Yes, I do. I’ll even go as far as to say I think we might be good for each other.” Lamor smiled, and clicking the locket shut. “What do you say? Will you come with me—be my actual apprentice?”

And Locke had no idea what Lamor did, or where Lamor planned to go, or even why the gods had conceived to put them in each other’s path. But it didn’t matter, because with a swelling heart Locke stood up on the chair.

“Yes!” he said. “Yes please!”

Lamor laughed loudly. “Well fuck me, if that didn’t make you polite all of a sudden.”

Locke grinned from ear to ear, and Lamor leant over and ruffled his light brown hair.  

“Go get me some water then,” Lamor ordered, and he shook his bottle of wine. “If I’m to recover, I guess I’d better start actually doing as I’m bloody told.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the delay! It's been hectic, and this fanfiction has really been pushed to the side. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and gave me the encouragement to keep on going!

Chapter Ten

 

Lamor’s condition improved a little, not enough to return to his evening walks, but enough to continue his work. He did this in the night, when Locke was asleep, and during the hours of the day when Locke was out.

As the days went by, Locke got progressively more curious about what Lamor was doing, and Lamor knew that curiosity would cost him, unless it was quelled.

And so, after a week of not-so-subtle sneaking around and trying to stay awake to see what Lamor was up too, Lamor took Locke into the office where he worked. Concealed beneath a carpet was the trap-door that led into the extended basement where Lamor kept his corpses and conducted his research. This, he decided not to show Locke. Not yet, at least.

Locke looked around the study and frowned. Lamor had put out various bits of his work, and there were book strewn around for effect. He _did_ occasionally use the study, but not enough to convince Locke he was spending all his time there, at least not without some added props.

“Now look,” Lamor crouched down so he was eye-height with Locke, “I’m showing you this because I trust you…But you must never come in here, Locke. The work I’m doing is delicate and dangerous. So now I’ve shown you it, I need you to promise not to sneak back in here, even if I’m not around. If you want to take a look, you must ask me first and we come together. Do you understand?”

“Can I watch you work?” Locke asked.

“You can watch me reading and writing, but my actual work…You’re not ready to see that yet. But I will show it to you, I’ll teach it to you. I swear. Now promise me you’ll do as you’re told.”

“I promise.”

“And no breaking that promise, or—”

“The gods’ll strike me down, I know.”

“Good boy.” Lamor ruffled Locke’s hair and rose up. He staggered slightly, and had to catch the wall to balance. Even though he was getting better, Lamor couldn’t call himself cured. The physicker had been coming by regularly and offered Lamor various treatments and suggestions. Lamor did half of them, and didn’t bother with the others. At the very least, his gums had stopped bleeding, and though he was persistently achy and tired, he hadn’t collapsed again.

Locke scrutinised Lamor. “Do you need to sit down?”

“I may just,” Lamor agreed, and he collapsed into a chair. Locke crept over. “I’m fine, Locke.”

“You look all pale again.”

“That’s my complexion. Now, I need to do some important work, and I may be some time. I want your promise that you aren’t going to disturb me.”

Locke grumbled but nodded.

“Good. Here—go and buy us something for dinner. I’m in the mood for celebrating tonight. Organise for food to be delivered after false-light.” Lamor threw Locke a coin, which he caught expertly. “And I tell you what—buy some paper, and pencil.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to teach you to read and write.” Lamor grinned. “Now off you go!”

Bemused, but excited, Locke scurried out of the house and left Lamor to his work. Lamor waited until he heard the door close, and then quietly locked his study, pushing the carpet back. Lifting the trap-door, he descended down into the cold basement.

His skin prickled, the hair on his arms and neck rising. There was an unnatural air about the place—Lamor pushed aside the general sense of unease, and walked over to his newest corpse. This one had been delivered that morning, freshly dead—only two hours. Rigor Mortis was only just setting in, and there was still a faint softness about the corpse that almost looked salvageable.

Lamor rubbed his hands together and got to work.

After weeks of attempts, failed theories and a headache worthy amount of thinking, Lamor had discovered the missing element to his spell. Energy. It was impossible to ignite the life spark without providing some, and no other form of energy would do. Lamor had tried fire, had tried force, and magic and even lightning, but without success. He hadn’t even been able to revive a fish, let a lot any of the many corpses that had passed through his basement.

Thus, the answer had come to him. The only energy strong enough to bring a person back to life, was life energy itself. If Lamor could master that, then tethering a soul to a body would be the next step.

Reaching beneath the table, Lamor produced a cage with a large, very fat pigeon in it. “Sorry, little dove,” he said to the bird, “but you’re going to be part of my experiment.”

Hanging the bird in its cage above the corpse, Lamor set to work. The spell was intricate, each element was weeks’ worth of study, and as Lamor put it together, excitement prickled through him. This was going to be the break—the penultimate step.

Carefully and meticulously he worked, until everything was set. There was energy in the air, like the heaviness before a storm. Rubbing his hands together, he positioned himself beside the corpse and sucked in a deep breath.

“Death—I am your master.” He raised his hands, tracing it in patterns over the complex and intricate sigils he’d painted across the corpse’s chest and face. The bird had been too difficult to paint, so Lamor had carved the spell along the bottom of the cage. So long as the bird was in contact with it, it would suffice. Lamor began his chant—the ancient death rite, twisted and perverted for his intentions.

Magic began to pick up, shooting through Lamor’s body. The dull ache in the back of his head rose as the force of the magic jumped through him.

The corpse on the table jolted—not alive, not yet—the muscles spasming. The bird gave a screech, and Lamor could taste blood. The energy in the room rose to suffocating. Pain seared down Lamor’s chest. He gasped, almost falling, but didn’t cease in his chant.

The room began to rattle, an evil stench filling the air. The corpse shook, and jolted, and the bird screamed like a dying child. Lamor could taste blood, his hands shaking. It was too much, too heavy. He could feel the weight of it, but he didn’t stop. His vision darkened to a single point, his voice choking out. But his lips kept on moving.

The magic hit a pitch, and the bird gave a final, forlorn screech. And then silence. A tide of magic, like a wave, lashed out through the room and Lamor fell back, gasping. Any glass in the room shattered, and wall cracked. Lamor collapsed onto his knees as the magic released, feeling like he’d been thrown against the wall. He pulled himself up, sweat streaming from his body and looked down at the corpse.

She was breathing. Lamor placed his hand over the chest and felt the heart-beat, weak and fast. He gasped, tears streaming down his eyes from the effort of what he’d done.

“I did it,” he gasped. “I brought a body back to life! I brought—”

The corpse on the table opened its eyes. Lamor jolted back in horror.

_No, that shouldn’t be possible—consciousness can only occur when there is a soul._

Was the woman so freshly dead that her soul had not completely left? Lamor leant over her.

“Can you hear me?” he gasped. “Do you know who you are?”

The woman’s eyes rolled madly in their sockets, and then she screamed. Not like a human—but like an animal. Trapped and mutilated. Her body flailed uselessly, and she shook, howling. Lamor placed his hands on her shoulders.

“It’s all right,” he tried to say, “everything is all right!”

The woman continued to emit that inhuman noise, opening and closing her mouth madly. Lamor tried to speak, but instead he lurched over and vomited. Mouthfuls of blood spattered to the floor. Lamor’s knees shook, and he held himself up on the table.

“Madam—please, if you can hear me—everything is all right. You’re safe,” he said weakly.

The woman’s screeching only grew louder, her body twisting unnaturally, like she was…

Like she was a…

_Oh Gods._

Lamor grasped her either side of her head. “Leonie Basmalli!” he said. He’d been sure to learn her true name. “Leonie Basmalli, I command you!” From where he got the magic, he didn’t know—Lamor could barely stand—but he weaved the spell together, trying to grasp her mind.

Instead he found nothing.

It wasn’t just a lack of Leonie Basmalli, it was a lack of anything. Just fear, pain—nothing intelligent beyond that, nothing of the human mind.

The woman screaming wasn’t Leonie Basmalli…

Lamor let her go and fell back, hitting the table behind him. In the cage above, the bird was limp and lifeless. Lamor’s breath quickened, his whole chest on fire.

Transference—gods, how had he not realised? Life energy, the soul…They were the same damn thing.

He’d transferred a bird’s soul into the body of a human being.

The corpse arched up with a final scream, and then in an onslaught, blood spurted out of the ears, eyes and nose of the woman. She trembled, and finally went still. Lamor reached forward and touched her wrist. No pulse. Nothing. The body had destroyed itself—an unnatural thing.

The only sound left in the room was Lamor’s laboured breath, deafening in his own ears.

All of his work, all of his hope, all of his time and effort and it was for nothing. You couldn’t bring back a person whose soul was already gone. After everything Lamor had been through, this was what he had to show for it…The same answer he’d been givin in Karthain.

Esme was gone. And she wasn’t coming back.

Lamor felt like he was being cracked in two. Fury, despair and agony gripped him like clutching hands. He reached up to wipe his face, trembling from head to toe, and turned away from the corpse in disgust.

Half-way down the stairs, Locke was stood, watching.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Locke had meant to keep to his word. The thrilling temptation to peak through the key-hole of Lamor’s office and try to see what he was doing was almost too much to bear for Locke’s little, curious mind, but Locke had intended to fight it. Lamor had said he would show Locke what he did, and would even teach Locke…So Locke could wait.

If he behaved well, Lamor was more likely to start teaching him quicker.

The streets were unusually quiet as Locke moved down them. For some days now, the crowds had thinned, and Locke had heard word of people getting ill. It didn’t mean much to him—people were always ill in Catchfire. Even so, Locke couldn’t shake the uncanny feeling he got walking down the empty street. His senses prickled with an unearthly sense of wrongness.

Moving down a side-street, he was met by a funeral possession coming the other way, from outside the physicker’s house. Locke hadn’t seen the man in a few days, which Lamor had assured him was a good thing.

 _“He clearly thinks I’m well enough, if he’s taking on other patients at the moment, despite the amount I’m paying the greedy bastard,”_ Lamor had said, and Locke believed him.

 Locke pushed himself up against a wall to get out of the way as they passed. A small crowd followed the casket, which was bound for a pyre. Locke edged along, watching it. Clearly the physicker’s last patient hadn’t done as well as Lamor. Locke wondered if it was the same illness that had half the street so quiet? It couldn’t be a plague, could it? Locke was only young, but he’d heard the horrors of plagues in Catchfire many times from Allesandro’s men…When they weren’t hitting him.

There was a young boy at the edge of the crowd wearing a servant’s livery, and Locke detached himself from the crowd to go over to him. “What did he die of?” he asked, nodding to the casket.

“They’re calling it the Black Whisper,” the boy replied. “Started innocent enough—lost his voice and his eyes went all red and puffy, and then his fingers and feet started turning black, and he couldn’t move. Next thing we know, everything’s rotting and falling off and he’s bleeding from his insides. Three days was all it took, then he vomited enough blood to fill a bathtub and died.”

“Gods,” Locke said. “Couldn’t the physicker do anything to help him?”

The boy looked strangely at Locke. “That _is_ the physicker,” he said.

Locke’s chest squeezed. “You’re lying.”

“Gods’ honest truth. Hope he wasn’t treating you.”

“No, but my master…” Locke drew off. The boy huffed.

“You’ll want to be avoiding him then. Most of the ol’ bastard’s patients are showing the same symptoms he was in the beginning—he must have caught the ill-humours from somewhere, and now he’s shared it with half of Catchfire. To think, spent all his working life trying to heal the sick, now I reckon he’s going to kill more people than he ever saved.”

Locke didn’t hear half of what the boy said. Everything had narrowed down to a single thing: Lamor. Lamor was sick—his eyes were all puffy red, and he got nosebleeds, and Locke didn’t know about black fingers, but what if…

What if Lamor had the Black Whisper?

And if he didn’t, how long would it be until he caught it, in his sorry state?

Forgetting everything he was told to do, Locke pushed passed the boy and ran as fast as he could back to the house. He had to warn Lamor, had to do something. Images flashed in his mind—Lamor dead…

 _No,_ Locke though. _No, I don’t want that. I don’t want that!_

He reached the door and let himself in, running to the study. There was a strange energy in the house, which made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck rise up. The air was thick and heavy, like a storm was brewing. Locke hammered on the door.

“Lamor!” he shouted, “Lamor, open up! Lamor!”

There was no reply. Locke banged even harder, and fear gripped him. What if Lamor was passed out somewhere, face down on the floor again? What if he was already dead?

Locke found the key he’d stolen, and slipped it into the study lock. The locksmith had been lazy, the key fitting every door in the house. Locke pushed the door open, expecting to find Lamor lying in a pool of his own blood, but was instead shocked to see the carpet pulled back, and a trap door. Edging over to it, he was about to knock when an inhuman scream rose up from below. Locke jumped a foot in the air, and then scrabbled for the trap-door, throwing it open.

He all but threw himself down the stairs into the hidden basement blow. It was lit by a dozen alchemical globes, so bright it looked like daylight. Locke froze half-way down the stairs as he took in the sight before him.

Bodies. Four of five of them, strewn on tables, some carved open, others painted with strange patterns.

Lamor was bending over a table, gripping a woman by the shoulders. She was alive—writhing and screaming.  There was blood splattered on the floor.

It was some sort of nightmare.

Locke couldn’t stop watching. Lamor was shouting something, but it was intelligible against the screams. Whatever he was doing, he stopped, stepping back. The woman curled around herself like she was burning alive, and then her head snapped back, and blood oozed from her mouth and nose. Dead.

The silence that filled the room in the wake of her screams was terrible. Locke could hear Lamor’s heavy breathing, but he didn’t dare make a sound himself. He was shaking.

_What did I just see? What is all this?_

Had Lamor killed them? Had he tortured them? Had he been trying to help them? Locke didn’t know. His throat was squeezed closed.

Lamor exhaled heavily, and turned, finally spotting Locke. He went ridged, his eyes widening. Locke stared openly back, petrified.

“Locke…” Lamor breathed. Locke trembled. Lamor looked over the corpse beside him. “I told you not to come here…” His voice was a whisper.

“I…the physicker…” Locke’s eyes darted to the dead woman. He wanted to be sick. “What did you do?”

Lamor paled, which seemed impossible, because he was close to skeletal already, his skin translucent and grey. Locke could see a vein throbbing in his jaw and temple.  “I told you not to come down here!” he repeated, his voice growing. There was a sudden rage in his eyes.

“I—”

“Get out!” Lamor bellowed. “Get out of here!”

Locke didn’t need to be told again. Quick as a fleeing rabbit, he turned and scuttled up the stairs. He heard a thump behind him, but didn’t dare look back to see what it was.

Running into the streets, Locke didn’t even think about where he was going. He sprinted, his heart-racing, sickness rising in his stomach. Everything was a blur of panic. He wanted somewhere to hide. Somewhere he could curl up and never be found, safe from everything.

He had a hiding spot, in the north-eastern part of Catchfire, where he used to sleep. Locke didn’t think about it, but his feet began to carry him there—the closest place he could call home.

And then a hand reached out from an alley, and grabbed him by the back of his clothes. Locke was swooped up into the air, choking, and found himself forced back into a wall. For half a second, he was discombobulated, and then he looked up to see the leering face of Allesandro.

“Well, what have we here?” Allesandro picked at Locke’s collar. “Little orphan rat seems to have gone up in the world. I don’t remember saying you could become a servant, and yet here you are with a uniform on?”

“Get off me,” Locke tried to wriggle free, but someone stepped around and blocked his escape. Allesandro had two of his men with him. Locke was barred between the three of them.

“That’s no way to speak to me,” Allesandro purred. “I own you—I’m your master. So why have you betrayed me, hm? My own child.”

“I’m not your child. You don’t even know my name,” Locke spat.

Allesandro’s hand flashed out and struck him so hard Locke was on the floor before he realised what had happened. His eyes watered.

“You don’t need a name—don’t deserve one,” Allesandro said. “You _earn_ your name in my gang—you earn the right to be recognised as a human. You understand? You’re less than me—less than him. Less than the dog who sleeps at my feet.”

Locke struggled back up to his feet. He couldn’t stop the tears of pain, though he tried his best to keep his face stoic. Allesandro slapped him down again.

“I suppose, if you are a servant, that can be useful. Who do you serve?”

“No one,” Locke snapped.

Allesandro sighed, and nodded to his companions. One grabbed Locke by the ankles and dangled him in the air. The other searched him roughly, and found the money for dinner. Allesandro took it, his eyes widening.

“Clearly someone rich, if they let you walk around with this much on your own? Or did you steal it, rat? Steal it, and try to keep me from getting my fair share? Is that it?” Allesandro waved his hand, and Locke was dropped onto his head.

Pain exploded through him, and he curled up on the floor, gasping and shaking. He’d put his arms out to cushion his fall, and now both wrists felt like they were about to snap in two. Allesandro kicked him, and Locke cried out, and then whimpered.

“You think you can keep things from me, rat?” Allesandro spat at him. “You think you can run your own operation? You know how I punish disloyalty, rat. Doesn’t matter what age. I’ll teach you, you piece of shit.”

He kicked Locke again, and then harder, before stamping down Locke’s ribs. Locke screamed, feeling something give-way. Allesandro spat on him.

“Take him. I’ll use him as an example—show all the little street rats what happens when they steal from me.” Allesandro grabbed Locke’s face. “You may just end up being useful after all. Dead, that is.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the plot advancing with Lamor and little Locke, I felt it was time to revisit Jean and Sabetha...
> 
> Thank you again for reviews! They rejuvenate me and give me the power to write!

Chapter Twelve

Jean was woken from an exhausted slumber by a sudden jolt in the bed. Torn from sleep, he sat up sharply, his hands instinctively reaching out either side, one to grip one of the Wicked Sisters, and the other to clench Locke’s wrist. It was disturbingly thin, almost as thin as the circumference of his hatchets.

The movement came again, and from across the room where Sabetha was reading in the pale morning light, she looked around.

“Locke?” she rose to her feet, red hair tumbling from over her shoulder as she looked around. Jean turned, following her gaze.

Locke was twitching in his sleep, his eyes rolling madly underneath their lids, like he was feverish. Jean released the Wicked Sister and turned in the bed, setting a heavy hand on Locke’s shoulder.

“Locke?”

Locke didn’t reply, unresponsive and shaking. Jean pushed himself onto his knees, his fingers tightening on Locke’s forearm. He gave him a small shake.

“Locke? Can you hear me?” Jean didn’t know what was happening. Was this a nightmare? Surely that meant Locke was close to be awake? Jean shook him a little harder. Sabetha crossed the room.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, I think—”

Locke’s twitching grew into a violent spasm, his body bucking up. Automatically Jean clapped his other hand down on Locke’s other side and pinned him down. Locke’s back arched up, his muscles straining.

“It’s a fit!” Jean said. He’d seen Locke faking it enough times to recognise the symptoms. For a mad second, Jean thought it was a joke—a bit of mummery from Locke before he opened his eyes and grinned. Jean had restrained Locke so many times like this, while onlookers gasped, and their mark fell for the illusion of sickness.

This wasn’t faked.

 Sabetha ran for the door. Jean knew she was going for the physicker—she didn’t have to say it. It was strange, after so long apart, they had all fallen back into sync with one another.

Jean grimaced down at Locke. What was he supposed to do? He’d faked it so many times, and yet Jean had never bothered to learn what to do if someone actually _did_ have a seizure.

“I know I swore it before,” he said, “but I swear this time, if he gets through this, I will memories every book on physick I can.”

Locke’s head snapped back with a broken choke, and then a stream of blood appeared under his eyelids. Jean’s heart almost stopped dead. “What?” he spluttered. “What is that?”

Locke didn’t reply, the red tears falling in a steady river.

“No,” Jean moaned desperately. “No—Locke…No.”

The door was thrust open, and Sabetha reappeared, dragging the physicker in after her. She pointed him to the bed.

“Fix it!” she ordered.

The physicker, wide eyed and still in his bedclothes, stumbled toward the bed and took one look at Locke. His eyebrows rose.

“What’s happening to him?” Jean demanded.

“I…I have no idea. I have never…” The physicker came forward and peered at Locke’s face. Pulling back an eyelid, the eyeball beneath was completely red, blood-shot and swollen looking. Jean’s stomach rolled. Had the lightning liquidised Locke’s brain?  Was there inflammation? Damage?

A trail of blood began to seep out of Locke’s nose, and his breath rasped as he choked.

“Quick, get him on his side!” The physicker ordered, and Jean flipped Locke over in one smooth motion. Blood soaked into the pillow. It was like the poison all over again…

 _Oh gods, the poison._ A terrible thought entered Jean’s mind. What if Patience _hadn’t_ cured Locke? What if she’d only delayed the inevitable?

 _Stop it!_ Jean ordered himself. Beneath his hands, Locke’s bucking body starting to calm. There was a final onslaught of blood, which expelled itself in a horrifying torrent, and then it slowed and stopped. Locke twitched a few more times, then went limp.

Sabetha stood behind Jean, watching grimly. Jean released Locke and stepped back off the bed. “Is he still…” he broke off.

The physicker pressed his hand to Locke’s neck. “Still alive,” he said gravely. “But this is a bad sign. It is only a matter of time. The pair of you must prepare yourselves…He will be passing into the hold of the Lady of the Long Silence soon enough.”

There wasn’t enough air in the room. Jean stood back in silence as Sabetha dealt with everything. She argued with the physicker, demanded he examine Locke properly, and offer some kind of treatment. The physicker complied, and Jean slowly felt himself stepping back until he hit the door.

Everything had tunnelled. Jean felt as if he’d stepped out of his own body. His ears were muffled, his limbs woolly. Quietly, and without a word, he slipped out, moving on pure instinct.

Sabetha found him in the stable ten minutes later, saddling his horse.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Jean tightened the girth. His hands were trembling. He saw for the first time there were spots of blood on his sleeve.

“It looks like you’re running away, but that can’t be right. Because you would never leave Locke,” Sabetha said.

“Wouldn’t I?” Jean whirled around her. “Fuck you, Sabetha—I don’t want to hear this shit from _you_ of all people!”

“Oh, I won’t stop you,” Sabetha picked dirt from her sleeve. “You need to leave, Jean, you leave. I understand.”

Her face was calm as she looked up at him. Jean stared her down, and that strange sense of detachment slowly evaporated. He was dropped back into his body, heavy and painful and real. He towered over Sabetha, but he’d never felt so small.

“Go on,” Sabetha said. “If anyone deserves it, you do. Go on.”

Jean turned back to the saddle and sagged into it. “I can’t…” His voice crumbled. “…Gods, I can’t do it. He’s leaving _me,_ but I can’t…I can’t…” Jean was disgusted with himself. For half a second he’d genuinely considered it. Packing up his things, settling down somewhere new, using his knowledge to set up a business and forgetting everything that came before. There would be no crime without Locke, no confidence schemes, no stealing from the rich and putting the cocky and powerful back in their place…Jean would forget all about the Gentleman Bastards and live clean and simple…

The idea was a relief. A respite from the grief. Jean moaned, and rested his head against the saddle. Sabetha’s arms snaked around his stomach, and she held him from behind.

“It’s all right,” she murmured. “You’re scared. I’m scared. I don’t want to watch him die either…If we leave now, we can pretend…”

“We can pretend there’s still a corner of the world which is being fucked by Locke Lamora,” Jean said, with a fragile laugh.

“Seeing it makes it real. And maybe…Maybe I could walk away from this, Jean…But we both know you’d never forgive yourself if you left now.”

“I wasn’t there for Galdo and Calo.” Jean closed his eyes, his heart aching. “I thought that was bad, but then I had to _watch_ Bug. And Ezri.” He swallowed. He could feel that lock of hair in his pocket, like it was burning. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever had to…Gods. It almost killed me.”

Sabetha’s arms tightened around his stomach. Jean squeezed his eyes closed. He was so tired of this—so tired of not being able to _do_ something. If only Locke had been kidnaped instead? Or taken prisoner? Or was stuck in the middle of a fight he couldn’t hope to win…These were things Jean could deal with. These were things Jean could fight and do. Hells, Jean had even dealt with Locke’s melancholy…

But the poison, the injuries, the brushes with death…There was only so many times Jean could beat Locke back into life.

“I don’t want to do this,” he moaned. “But I can’t leave. I can’t leave…I wish I could! But…but…!”

“You love him,” Sabetha whispered.

“I love him,” Jean sobbed, gripping the saddle. “I love him, and now I have to watch him die.”

Neither of them moved for a long time, Sabetha holding Jean tightly as he struggled to control himself, his body raked with sobs. There were no tears—just the hollow ache of broken gasps and clutching breaths.

And Jean finally understood it, why he was down here, in the stable. Why his feet had moved while his brain was still frozen in horror.

Self-preservation.

Leaving was the only chance he had at living.

Because Jean knew, if he saw Locke die, he wouldn’t last long. Whether from misery, from a drunken misadventure, from picking a suicidal fight, Jean would follow Locke…Their lives were tied, unequivocally.

If Locke Lamora went, so did Jean Tannen.

Dry eyed and exhausted, he and Sabetha returned to the room, hand in hand, ready to face their fate.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK - I am so sorry for the delay, but my brother got married yesterday, so it's been absolutely hectic!
> 
> Thank you to EVERYONE who reviewed. Honestly, I was half-debating putting this fic to the side, but everyone's words of encouragement have pushed me on! It's almost finished now. Maybe another three chapters? Please keep pushing me!

Chapter Thirteen

 

Lamor regretted his words the moment Locke turned and fled. Logically, having a witness was dangerous and Lamor couldn’t afford to have Locke spreading what he’d seen to anyone else…

But that wasn’t what went through Lamor’s mind as he watched Locke tear up the stairs away from him. His anger—fuelled by failure and grief—burnt itself out in an instant, and all Lamor could think of was the terror in his little ward’s eyes.

“Locke—” He tried to call after the boy, but his knees gave way, and he crumpled to the floor. Another mouthful of blood rose up through his throat, and he coughed, hacking. On the stairs, Locke was long gone. Lamor heard the distant slam of the front door. “Locke…”

He couldn’t move an inch. Every part of him was in burning with pain, and he was sapped of energy. For a dizzy moment, Lamor actually felt as if death was rushing to meet him…

And then it settled, and with teeth clenched, he was able to slowly push himself to his feet. Each step was laborious, his head swimming. He leant heavily against the table, and then crawled up the stairs like an animal on all fours.

The hallway was dark, and the air still felt suffocating and heavy. Lamor stumbled his way to down the hall, and then knowing he wouldn’t get three strides down the street without collapsing and being mugged, he changes course into the parlour.

There, he collapsed on the chaise-longue, aching, and closed his eyes. The weight of the atmosphere pushed down on him, and he exhaled, coughing.

When he opened his eyes next, the room was cool. He had an immediate sense of time shifting, his body no longer rebelling against him. Slowly he sat up, head swimming and glanced at the window. Dusk, or falselight? He’d slept the day way. Touching a hand to his head, his skin was burning hot, but felt dry. His throat was parched and run-raw like he’d been screaming.

Lamor’s body longed for one of the untouched bottles of wine in the kitchen, but as he caught up with himself, only one though filled his mind. Locke. He had to find Locke.

The boy must have been scared out of his wits.

“Fuck,” Lamor moaned, resting his head in his hands. He’d made a mistake—he’d screwed up. There was a strange clarity to his mind that he hadn’t felt in months. It was almost like Esme was leaning over him, her hands on her hips, that scowl pinching her beautiful face.

_“What have you gone and done now?”_

“It was for you,” Lamor said. “It was all for you.”

_“Nonsense. It was for you. And that was fine then, but you’re not the only one to think about now, are you?”_

Lamor laughed. He’d imagined it over and over, introducing Locke to Esme. She would have loved the boy—taken one look at him, and claimed him as her own. She was always fond of the clever strays…Had always had an ability to love what others feared or disregarded. That was the only reason she’d probably dared to love him.

If anyone could have set Locke straight, it would have been Esme—she’d have had him behaving like a gentlemen, but never losing that streak of the wild he had in him. They were quite similar, the two of them, in their defiance of expectation…

Perhaps that’s why Lamor had been certain he could bring Esme back—not through skill on his part, but because of her power. Her will. Her brightness and love for life.

For the first time it truly felt like she was gone, not in that aching, disbelieving way he’d been suffering for so long…But as a fact. After months, he’d finally swallowed the truth and in had bloomed. She was really gone. Gone—but not lost. Never lost. How could she be, when Lamor could imagine every word she would say, as if she were right there beside him.

_“Get up, my love. You took in that boy, now he’s yours—and the living always come before the dead.”_

“Yes, my sweet,” Lamor murmured, and he felt strangely warm and comforted. “But how do I find him? It’s been hours. He could be anywhere—the boy’s a fox, he can hide better than anyone I know.”

_“Alas, if only you had some special sort of skill that people pay literal thousands for…”_

Lamor actually laughed. What was he doing? He was a fucking Bondsmage. He bore five black rings on his wrist. He was the youngest man to achieved his level of power and ability, the most feared sorcerer in Karthain, the man who’d dare to try and defy the very laws of life…

Why was he worrying about a five year old out-running him?

It didn’t take long to find something of Locke’s in the house. There was hair on the pillow he slept on, and wrapping it around his finger, Lamor only had to draw on the faintest magic to perform the location spell.

Stepping out into the street of Camorr, Lamor walked with confidence, his black cloak rippling behind him. No more hiding—no more experiments in basements and corpses. Lamor was going to get Locke, and he was going to go home…

And if Patience wanted to hang him, well…Lamor would face that challenge later. For now, he was going to get his ward back.

The location spell drove Lamor on. The streets had a strange tension to them. Several people passed Lamor in groups, clinging to bags, as if they were fleeing from something.  Distantly there was shouting, but Lamor ignored it, moving in the other direction.

It didn’t take him long to realise he was heading toward the Portside inn. Had Locke returned to Allesandro? Well then, Lamor would have to remove him from the garrista’s grasp.

There was a crowd outside the inn as Lamor approached, people gathered in the inside looking in. The spell throbbed, pulsing as Lamor’s proximity to Locke increased. He was definitely here—somewhere in that crowd.

There was a lot of shouting on the inside, and laughter.  Lamor drew on his magic and slipped through the wall of bodies as easily as a shadow.

What he found as he stepped into the inner circle, made his stomach drop. The magic cloaking him fell away.

Locke was lying on the floor of the inn, his back to Lamor, curled into a protective ball.

Allesandro was above him, sat in high-backed chair and grinning. “A clipped copper per kick,” he called, like he was advertising at the market, “a copper for a stamp. Silver to break something. And for a Crown, you can bugger the miserable rat. Step right up—he’s here for one night only. Tomorrow I give ‘im to the slavers. If he’s still alive.”

“Just put him out of his misery—he’s a child!” someone shouted.

“You steal from me, you face the consequence—no matter the age. I don’t claim to have power over death—that’s Capa Barsavi’s right. But your limbs and yours bones are mine to break, and if you die from a weak heart, I can hardly be blamed.”

“Here, here!” Someone else stepped forward, tossing a coin in the air. Allesandro caught it expertly. The man raised his foot above Locke’s head, but Lamor swept in. With barely any effort, he threw the man back against the wall of people, and crouched down beside Locke. Reaching out, he tried to turn him onto his back. Locke gave out a cry of agony, and then went quiet, shaking from head to toe.

“Oh _Gods,_ Locke,” Lamor gasped.

There was blood smeared all down Locke’s face, his nose caved in, both eyes black and his lip split over a shattered jaw. Clutched to his chest, it was clear all of his fingers were bent and broken, his collar snapped and his shoulder dislocated. Each shuddering breath allowed Lamor to see the damage to Locke’s ribs.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Allesandro shouted above him, leaning forward. “You wanna play, you gotta pay.”

Lamor rested his hand on Locke’s forehead. “I’m so sorry, Locke. I didn’t mean to send you away.”

Locke’s eyes flittered open. “Lamor?” he managed to say, around his injured face.

“Just lie still. I’m going to make this better.” Lamor’s hands traced down Locke’s cheeks, and he pushed his magic forward, searching for the channels of pain which mapped their way down through Locke’s abused body. Locating them, he interrupted the flows of agony, one by one, until Locke’s pain diminished into a background ache. Locke sighed, his body going limp in relief.

Lamor looked down at the damage, and barely knew where to start. His study of anatomy over the last few months meant that he could probably call himself an expert without over-exaggerating, but this was all so much for one tiny body.

It didn’t matter. He’d manage it. Lamor had consumed book after book on healing with magic, and was probably the best-read bondsmagi on the whole subject. He was sure he could mend this damage…physically, anyway.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me?” Allesandro threw a glass at Lamor. His hand snapped up and caught it, before it hit him across the face. Slowly, with a cold, glacial fury, he raised his eyes to meet Allesandro's.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” he said, in a low voice.

A shiver passed through the room. Lamor knew they could sense the magic—that uncomfortable, almost metallic taste in the air—but he doubted any of them could identify what it was.

Quietly, and as carefully as possible, Lamor negotiated Locke into his arms, picking him up. Locke’s body trembled, and it only filled him with more rage.

“Hey—you want him, you have to pay for him.” Allesandro rose up. “He’s mine.”

“Actually,” Lamor said, “he’s mine. And I don’t have to pay for him. But you will.”

Allesandro spluttered, laughing. “You must not know the way things run around here.” He moved his arm in a strange way, and a knife slid down from his sleeve into his hand. Around Lamor, several other people armed themselves. Lamor barely took any heed.

“I understand perfectly well. Which is why I’ll be leaving your Capa with a dead Garrista, as a lesson for what happens when he doesn’t keep them on a tighter leash.”

Again, Allesandro laughed. “You threatening me? Wait,” he narrowed his eyes, “you must be the one the rat was working for. Fuck, have you gone and got attached? He’s not worth your life, you dumb bastard.”

Lamor kept his eyes level. “You have very little time left to say whatever you mean to. If there’s anything profound you wish to share with your pezons, do so now. By the time I leave this room, you’ll be dead.”

Allesandro’s eyes widened, and he looked around the room, grinning. Everyone began to laugh. Lamor was surrounded, outnumbered, and was carrying an injured child in his arms. Locke’s eyes were open a sliver, swollen deeply with bruising. Lamor could feel every breath of his little body.

“I should warn you what’ll happen if you try to kill me, prick,” Allesandro said. “In-fact, I should warn you what’s about to happen for just threatening it.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Lamor said lightly. “You’re going to kill yourself. Slowly. And your men are all going to watch you do it, and nobody will step in to help. And when you’re finally dead, they will stand back, and let me pass through without a word.”

The laughter increased. “What are you—fucking crazy?” Allesandro slapped his thigh in amusement.

Lamor smiled, and raised his hand, so that his sleeve fell down. Allesandro’s eyes snapped up to the five black rings, and the blood drained from his face.

Lamor clicked his fingers, and the heavy presense of magic descended on the room, paralysing everybody.

Allesandro fell back, scrabbling in his thrown. “Fuck,” he said, “fuck, you’re a _bondsmage_?”

“That’s right,” Lamor said. “Allesandro Porcella.”

Allesandro went ridged as the power of his name was used against him. Lamor felt his magic grip the man’s mind. Tears of panic welled in Allesandro’s eyes.

“Now,” Lamor said, hitching Locke up higher against him, “you appear to have broken my boy’s fingers…So to start, I'd like you to take up that knife, Allesandro Porcella, and you're going to cut off your own fingers for me. One by one, if you please.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello? Is there anyone still reading this? :(  
> Nobody commented on the last chapter, so I may well just be posting into the void now...Is anyone still with me? Do you want me to finish?
> 
> A couple of lines at the end are taken direct from The Lies of Locke Lamora.

Chapter Fourteen

 

Locke wasn’t sure whether he was dreaming. He slipped in and out of consciousness, time skipping strangely. Strange scenes flashed infront of his eyes. He watched Allesandro raise the knife above his head, swearing, and then screaming as he brought it down over his own hand. Then, he blinked, and Allesandro was on the floor, eviscerated, sobbing and begging as he worked the knife on himself, large chunks of flesh already missing, the scent of bloody heavy in the room. He felt Lamor’s hand on the back of his head, turning his face away, as the screams got louder, and louder. Lamor’s voice was soft and severe…But Locke didn’t feel afraid.

Time jumped, and he was going carried out of the Portside Inn. He caught a final glance of what was left of Allesandro. The Garrista’s head was tipped back in agony, eyes bulging, his insides open, guts pouring out. Nobody moved to intervene as Lamor slipped through the grown out of the door.

“Let it be known,” he said, “anyone else who tries to touch a hair on my boy’s head, and they’ll meet a similar fate. He’s a bondsmage now.”

Locke didn’t understand what that meant, but the way Lamor said _my boy_ resounded with him. He wasn’t afraid, despite what he’d seen and heard.

The night air was hot, and there was noise in the streets. He heard people shouting, and someone screamed. There were strange flurries of movement, and Lamor cursed, tightening his hold around Locke.

The next Locke knew, they were at home in the house, and Lamor was bolting all of the doors, breathing hard. Locke was carried into the parlour and laid on the chaiselounge.

“Lamor…” Locke managed to mumble, and Lamor smiled unconvincingly.

“Yes Locke?”

“…Physicker,” Locke said.

“No need for that—I’ll fix you.”

“No,” Locke said. “Physicker…dead.”

Lamor’s eyebrows raised. “Dead? What do you mean, physicker dead? The man who treated me?”

“Black…Whisper…Patients sick…wanted to warn you…Plague…” Locke couldn’t manage any more. Lamor stared at him.

“So that’s why you came back early?” Lamor said, his voice a low, breathing rumble. “Never mind for now. It’s better if you sleep, Locke. Close your eyes for me.”

Locke didn’t argue. He could taste blood in the air. Lamor covered his eyes with a shaking hand, and there was a strange sensation…

Locke slipped off into the gathering arms of his dreams.

*

Catchfire had been quarantined. It happened overnight, and the dawn was heralded by screams and an outbreak of violence. Locke slept for two days straight, too exhausted to even stir. Between touches of healing and preparations, Lamor watched from the shadows as law and society crumbled in the rule of animals. If he’d thought that Camorr was a place of lawlessness before, the streets of Catchfire had now transformed into hell.

By falselight three days later, half of the adult occupants were dead, and the other were dying. The brave few who’d tried to cross the water had been shot down, and corpses were gathering on the shore, where the tide had brought them in, and would then soon carry them back out again. The Camorii sharks would be feasting well tonight.

Locke stirred just as the darkness began to descend, his eyes glossy with confusion and sleep. Lamor settled himself on the bed beside Locke.

“How do you feel?”

Locke considered this question for a while, wiggling his fingers and touching his face. “Better,” he said, his voice a rasp. He considered Lamor for a very long time. “Are you magic?”

“I am,” Lamor said. “I’m a bondsmage.”

Locke’s glazed eyes seem to focus a little more. “What you did to Allesandro…”

Lamor inhaled deeply. He was starting to regret acting so violently, not because Allesandro hadn’t deserved it, but because Locke shouldn’t have had to witness it.

“Can I learn to do that?” Locke asked.

“Yes…You can,” Lamor said. “But I hope that you’ll never have to. Magic can be used for so many better things…Your life, Locke, it’s going to be different now.”

“How?” Locke asked.

“I’m going to take you to Karthain with me. I’m going to teach you everything I know. And not just magic—you’ll learn to ride, to swim, to write and read and speak languages. Do you understand, Locke? From now on, you’re not my servant any more. You’re my ward. My pupil.” Lamor broke off. “My son,” he said.

Locke’s eyes were as round as coins, bright and penetrating despite the gloom. “Son?” he said, hoarsely.

Lamor nodded. “We’re going to leave tonight. Catchfire is quarantined, so it’ll be dangerous getting out, but we can’t afford to stay any longer.”

“Quarantined?” Locke sat up straighter in the bed as Lamor rose up. “Black Whisper?”

“I’m afraid I’m to blame,” Lamor said gravely. “The magic I dabbled in…the experiments I was doing…They caused a negative effect. I tried to contain it by working underground, but even I wan’ts immune. The magic made me ill. When the physicker attended to me, he must have caught some of my ill-humours, and then passed them on to his other patients…This epidemic, I was the one who caused it.”

“Oh,” Locke said in a quiet voice. “What…what were you trying to do?”

Lamor bit his lip, and reaching down, he pulled out the locket and clicked it open to reveal the lock of hair. “I was trying to bring Esme back,” he said. “My wife.”

Locke stared, open mouthed. “She’s dead. Can you do that?”

“No,” Lamor said. “What you saw…with the woman…it proved irrefutably that when a soul has departed, there is no returning it. Esme is gone, and I…I have made peace with that.” His heart throbbed, even as he forced the words, but his mind felt clearer than it had in a long time. “Locke, I’ve been a complete idiot—I let grief consume me, and now Catchfire is paying the price.”

“Are you going to die?” Locke asked softly.

Lamor raised an eyebrow. “Eventually,” he said. “But not yet.”

“But the Black Whisper…?”

“I have it…you have it too—it’s why you feel so weak at the moment.” Lamor brushed Locke’s hair out of his eyes. The boy would need to get a hair-cut—Lamor could have him dressed up properly when they got home. A new bondsmage in training—Locke had to look the part. “It won’t kill either of us. We’re both already recovering.”

“But you were really sick!”

“And a bondsmage,” Lamor said.

“But what about me?”

“Judging from what I’ve observed these last few days, it isn’t fatal for children. Perhaps your vitality is too strong, or the fact you’re fresher, newer souls brimming with life-energy means the death-humours can’t touch you. I don’t know. But you, Locke—you personally—you’re like me…It’ll take more than that to kill you.”

Locke didn’t look convinced, and Lamor rumbled a laugh.

“You’ll see,” he said. “I don’t have Patient’s gift for the sight, but I sense trouble in your future. You’re going to have to be a durable little bastard.”

“Then why…why do we need to leave now?” Locke asked. “If we aren’t sick?”

“Because if they catch me here, there could be complications.”

“Who?”

“The other Bondsmages,” Lamor said quietly. “They’re not overly sentimental about other people, but my work…It’s best if they don’t tie this whole fiasco with me.”

“Would you be executed?” Locke asked, horror creeping into his voice. Lamor snorted.

“Executed? No. Stripped of rank, shamed and possibly imprisoned? Much more likely. They’ll find out eventually, but the punishment is likely to lose it’s severity the further it gets away from the crime.”

“Why?”

“Honestly Locke? Because they don’t care about your people—it’s not about the deaths or the Black Whisper. It’s because I disobeyed societal expectations and went against the grain. If I establish myself back among them, after a time they’ll right off my actions as grief or foolishness and forget about it. If they catch me now, before I’ve had a chance to return of my own accord, they’ll be less forgiving.”

Locke was very quiet for a long while, his face twisted in thought.

“You must think we’re terrible people,” Lamor said softly.

Locke shrugged. “No one else cares about us,” he said quietly, “not the Duke, not the Capa, not the rest of Camorr—why should people from Karthain give a shit?”

The words hit harder than Lamor intended. “I am truly sorry for what I’ve done,” he said. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

Locke looked up at him. “I forgive you,” he said simply.

“Just like that?” Lamor raised an eyebrow. When Locke got older, surely he’d feel more strongly about it—surely it would upset him more. _He still doesn’t understand death properly,_ Lamor thought. _That’s why he can forgive me so easily._

Locke continued to stare up at him. “You the only one who ever cared about me. I care if you die. No one else.”

 _Utterly cut-throat._ Lamor almost found the words unnerving, but if anyone had a right to be acerbic and uncaring it was Locke. That didn’t mean he was without feeling, and that didn’t mean he wasn’t empathetic—he just didn’t have cause to be. Empathy, kindness—who in Catchfire could currently afford those qualities, when the rest of Camorr wanted to bleed you dry.

Lamor would give Locke a good life. Give Locke the kind of life that allowed him to be kind.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Locke hesitated, then got up and slid out of the bed. His knees were weak, but he was able to stand. He nodded. “I think so.” His stomach growled and he looked down at himself. “I’m hungry.”

“I’m not surprised. But we’ll eat one we’re out.” Lamor held out his hand. “I swear.”

Locke nodded trustingly and took Lamor’s hand.

*

They walked through the streets, hand in hand. They went completely unnoticed, disguised in a shroud of magic which rendered them invisible. Locke’s eyes were wide and watchful as he soaked in the atrocities around him. The last he’d seen of Catchfire, it had only been on the cusp of its demise, now it was well underway, putrid with gruesome smells, harrowing screams and death.

Lamor hurried Locke along, fingers tight around the boy’s tiny hand. “If we’re seen, we’ll be shot down.  We need to cross the water. I’ll have to disguise the boat, but you’ll need to keep quiet and still.”

Locke nodded gravely, his lips pinched together.

They got to the water’s edge, and found one of the gondola abandoned there. On the water itself, several other boats were floating, unmanned, their occupants shot-down and killed. The Duke’s Ghouls were patrolling the other side of the water with large alchemical lamps, armed with cross-bows. Lamor could feel Locke shaking beside him.

“Quietly into the boat,” Lamor said. “Not a sound.”

Locke nodded, and stepped into it, light-footed and silent. Lamor followed him, the magic still gathered around them. His head was starting to pound from maintaining it—magic like this should have been easy, but after almost three days without sleep, and periodic healing, combined with the final dregs of the Black Whisper which was still leaving his body, Lamor could barely concentrate.

 _Just this last little stretch,_ he thought. _Then I’ll be able to rest. We both will. I’ll be back to full strength soon._

The boat creaked beneath them, and Lamor held his breath, propelling it slowly forward with his magic. He couldn’t see all the watchmen or ghouls, which mean invisible as they were, their disguise wasn’t infallible. It was a fragile illusion, and Lamor’s handle over it was even more fragile.

Lights passed over them, and Locke tensed, but didn’t make a sound. His fingers gripped Lamor’s doublet, holding on tightly. Their boat drifted slowly across the water. They were a quarter of the way…A ghoul ship was bobbing perilously close by, three men in masks all sat looking out with lanterns. Lamor watched it, steering them slowly around…

Something moved in Lamor’s peripheral. Locke gave a sudden gasp, and the next thing Lamor knew, the boat was rocking. He snapped his head around to see they’d hit another one of the small, floating vessels. Two corpses lay in the bottom, limp and starting to stink.

The clatter made the ghouls look around. Lamor concentrated all his magic on disguising them, blood pounding through his head. The ghoul’s lanterns passed harmlessly over their boat, and then moved on.

Locke’s breath was short, quiet and quick. Lamor squeezed his shoulder, and slowly tried to move on, detangling them from the other boat.

One of the corpses twitched—a man, in his early twenties, Lamor would have guessed—and then, all at once, the corpse had sat up and grabbed the side of their boat. Locke gave a short scream, and Lamor gasped, throwing himself back.

The man reached over to them. There was a cross-bow bolt was stuck in his left eye, blood streaming down his face. His skin was black with the Whisper.

“Help us…” he choked. “Please, help us…!”

The man scrabbled at the side of their boat, and tried to drag himself aboard.

“Help,” he repeated, tumbling forward. He grabbed at Locke’s ankle. “Help!”

Light fell over them, the ghouls turning back.

“There!” someone shouted.

Lamor swore, and raising a foot, he kicked the man away from their boat. The man staggered. There was a sharp series of cracks, and the next second a cross-bolt was sticking through the man’s neck. He looked down at Lamor with his one, bloodshot eye, and fell into the water. He didn’t resurface.

Another cross-bolt shot over Lamor’s head, a silvery downpour of arrows raining down toward them, like hail. The illusion was broken. Lamor threw his hand out, contorted it into a series of shapes. The water beneath them swelled, and then a ripple lashed out toward the ghoul’s boat, capsizing it. A series of screams raised the alarm. Lamor tried to seize the edges of the darkness to hide them. Locke’s hand grabbed him by the front and tugged hard.

Lamor propelled their boat backwards, out of the firing range, as the other ghouls narrowed in on their location. He was able to pull the invisibly spell back over them, but there was no way they’d be able to cross the water now. He swore, reaching out and pulling Locke hard against him.

Locke fell into him compliantly with a gasp, and something hard bit into Lamor’s skin. He looked down to find the end of a cross-bolt pressing into his stomach, the fletchings sharp and dark. Locke coughed and shuddered, and Lamor’s stomach dropped.

“Oh gods, no,” he gasped, pushing Locke back to see. “No—Locke! No!”

Locke lay rigid in the boat, chest rising and falling in broken, wet coughs. Across his chest, a fountain of blood bloomed across his chemise, where a crossbolt had struck him clean-through.

“Lamor—” Locke choked out, hand still tightly gripping Lamor’s doublet. “Can’t…br…brea…breathe…”

“Hold on!” Lamor clamped his hand over the wound, propelling their boat back toward the shores of Catchfire. “Just hold on, Locke!”

Locke’s eyes burned with pain, and then seemed to dull, blood bubbling up to his lips. Lamor cried out, his magic surging. The boat all but rose from the water, and ran ashore, crashing into the land. Lamor seized hold of Locke, and lifted him out onto the ground, lying him flat.

“Locke! Locke!”

Locke was limp, mouth parted and running with blood, eyes faded and distant. Lamor turned his head, slapping his cheek to get some reaction. Nothing.

“No. No no no no no!” Lamor grabbed the bolt and tore it out, pouring his magic into Locke’s body—unrefined and undirected. “Locke? Locke!?”

He felt a flicker of life beneath his fingers—the barest ember, dying away. _There!_

Lamor latched onto it, that tiny glowing kernel of life, and refused to let it go. “You hold on, you hear me? You do not get to die. You understand—you do not get to die.” He pushed Locke’s hair out of his face, clamping a hand across his forehead. And it was just like Esme—he was sat, watching the whole thing happen again, forever the witness. Lamor’s whole chest felt like it would explode. “I have lost too damn much already—come on, Locke!”

More magic poured through Lamor’s arms into the little boy’s body, but Locke’s chest was no longer rising and falling.

Lamor yanked Locke’s head back by his hair. “Breathe!” he roared. “Breathe, the gods damn you! Just breathe.”

But Locke didn’t breath, and beneath Lamor’s hand that tiny spark of life shrank to a mere whisper. Lamor’s own heart stopped.

He was going to make it. He wasn’t going to be able to save Locke in time. Once that tiny flame went out, it was all over—Locke would be gone, and there would be no way to bring him back.

There just wasn’t enough life left in his body…

 _But there’s enough in mine,_ Lamor thought, and a sudden, surge of calm settled over him. Yes—yes, he could donate his own life-spark instead. So long as a bit of Locke remained, he would live. Lamor could repress his own memories, so that Locke could just be himself—it would mean Lamor wouldn’t just die, he’d be erased…

But Locke would live. Locke would live, and suddenly that was all that mattered.

Lamor leant down and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead. “I’m not letting you go,” he said, and raising his other hand to begin the spell, he began to pour his life-energy into Locke’s broken body. The tiny, dying flame, reared up and roared with life, and Lamor’s vision darkened in the edges. “I’m not letting you go too,” he repeated.

He hoped Esme would be there to meet him on the other side.

_*_

He wasn’t sure why he followed the crooked old man, but some clever instinct inside the boy had told him to. It wasn’t that he recognised any of the murky, dirty faces of the other children, but he had a sense that he was safer with them, then with the Duke’s men.

He couldn’t say why he didn’t trust the Yellow-jackets, or how he knew how to steal so easily, or even why he didn’t seem concerned by the dead they left behind…His mind was a white landscape. This probably should have alarmed him, but he was more concerned by his empty belly.

The old man—the so-called Thief Maker—fed them, and then enlisted them. This didn’t seem unusual. Infact, being made to steal for one of the ‘Right People’ felt as natural to the boy as breathing. He felt like he’d already been doing it all his life…

“What’s your name, boy?” the Thief-Maker asked, and the question surprised more than anything else that night.

“Lamor,” he said, out of some instinct. And then he frowned, because somehow the name had felt both right and wrong…

“Your parents must have been misers to give you nothing but a surname. What _else_ did they call you?”

And the boy who’d introduced himself had to think on that. He didn’t recall any parents, and he didn’t recall these non-existent entities calling him anything either.

A name floated to the top—one that felt both strange, but also strangely exciting—as if it were the name of someone he _wanted_ to be, rather than who he was.

“I’m called Locke,” he said, and then because it felt natural, he added, “After my father.”

Somehow the Thief-maker misheard, twisting the name into something more Camorri, and the boy knew better then to correct him. Besides, the Thief-Maker was certainly right about one thing.

The name Locke Lamora really did roll off the tongue.

* * *

 

 

**Please, please, please do leave me a comment if you are still reading this! I need to know whether it's worth the time to carry on and finish...**


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and let me know people are still reading this! Your reviews inspired me to write, so here's the penultimate chapter! I hope you all enjoy.

Chapter Fifteen

_Locke Lamora, Garrista of the Gentleman Bastards, Thorn of Camorr and Priest of the Crooked Warden, couldn’t breathe. Something was sat on his chest, pinning him down, the world pitch black around him._

_Pain, like fire, erupted behind his eyes, and he writhed. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop it!”_

_“Shhhh,” a familiar voice hissed, and Locke’s whole body went cold with dread. “You’ve a long way to go yet.”_

_“B-Bug?” Locke gasped. “Bug, is that you?”_

_There was a low rumble of laughter, and the pain in Locke’s eyes increased. He screamed, trying to wriggle free. “Wh-what is that?” he demanded. “Why can’t I see? What—what’s going on!?”_

_“We have a lot to write,” Bug said. “So many sins, Locke Lamora.”_

_“No,” Locke trembled. He remembered Bug’s eyes—those lines of black slowly blinding him. “No—no! This isn’t real! No—stop! No!”_

_Bug’s laughter echoed, and Locke felt a hand press him back to the ground, his eyelids forced open._

_“I’m not even half-way through, and there’s no room left.”_

_“Bug—please! Bug, stop!” Locke begged. “Bug, I’m sorry!”_

_“Too late for that. Your sins have been counted and you have been judged. You’re never getting out of here, Locke. You’re never getting out.”_

*

Locke was screaming. He couldn’t see—his eyes burned, and he was suffocating. _Oh Gods, make it stop. Make it stop._

A hand gripped his shoulder, like an anchor point.

“Locke?” The voice was foreign and familiar. “Locke—it’s just a nightmare. You’re dreaming. Let yourself out now—your grief and guilt can only keep you prisoner for so long.”

*

There was a woman walking beside him, her hand curled in his. She had inquisitive eyes and streaming brown hair that flowed down her back like rivers of water. _Not Sabetha_ , but he loved her. He loved her.

 _Not Locke,_ he thought. _Not Locke._

His head burned.

*

 

Everything was dark. The world around him felt frayed and unreal, and Locke felt sure that if he gripped it, it would fall away in his hands like cobwebs. The ground beneath was wet and cold, and distantly, Locke felt sure he could hear the low rumble of thunder. His skin was alive with prickles of pain, like static running through him, and he didn’t dare move.

“Well then,” a soft voice said above him, “here you are.”

Locke sat up very sharply, and gasped at the pain. He felt like he’d been lit on fire and then dosed in boiling water. He collapsed back down, shuddering. “Bug?” he breathed in terror. His eyes—had they covered his eyes. He was looking, but he couldn’t see.

There was a faint chuckle. “Try again.”

Locke frowned. That same voice—older, familiar. _Not Jean. Not Chains._ “Who are you?” he demanded. “Where am I?”

“Open your eyes, and you’ll see.”

“My eyes _are_ open!” Locke snapped. “I can’t see. Fuck—I can’t see.”

“Of course you can.”

“Fuck you—I can’t! It’s pitch-black. Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Locke gasped for air, his chest tight.

There was a soft sigh. “Let’s try this another way,” the voice said. “Who are you?”

“I’m none of your fucking business.”

“A pleasure, none of your fucking business.”

“Look—whoever you are, would you just piss off?” Locke’s head pounded. He tried to piece together what had happened, but it didn’t make sense. Everything in his mind felt fragmented.

“If you don’t want to give me your name,” the man continued, “shall I give you one instead?”

“Go away.”

“How about I call you Locke?”

A jolt shot through Locke’s body, and this time he was able to sit up, even though it made him want to scream.

And he suddenly remembered the shore-line of Catchfire, and the strange man he’d stolen from, and the locket, and the hair, and the—

The darkness fell-away, a stream of pale-light, like the glow of the moon spilling down on them, and it really was like Locke had opened his eyes. He twisted around.

“Lamor,” he choked, and the man; his friend, his master, his _father_ , smiled widely.

“Locke it is,” he said.

And he pulled Locke into a tight embrace.

*

Locke’s whole head was pounding. He was lying on the moonlit shore of Catchfire, in the last place he could remember. Lamor had released him, and was now saw beside. He was wearing the same clothes that Locke had last seen him in. It was as if they were back in the moment, that day…But Locke wasn’t a child.

He remembered everything. The boat, the dead-man reaching out for them, the crack of cross-bolt…And how he had moved, through some suicidal instinct, and put himself into the arrows paths…The pain still felt fresh and real, the cross-bolt buried in his chest, puncturing his lung and filling his throat with blood.

_I thought I was dead…I was dead._

“I understand it’s a lot, so take your time,” Lamor said softy, his eyes on the water.

Locke groaned, rubbing his forehead. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Simply put, you’ve been struck by lightning, and now your electrocuted brain is desperately trying to pull itself back together again,” Lamor said, calmly.

“Struck by lightning?” Locke looked up sharply. “When was I—”

Sabetha. The inn. The storm. The…pain. Locke shuddered.

“Oh,” he said. “Does that mean…Am I dead?”

Lamor laughed quietly. “Not yet.”

“Then this…this is a dream?”

“I would wager so, yes,” Lamor said. “Or, at the very least, it’s all in your head.”

Locke wasn’t sure if the swooping in his stomach was relief, sadness, or just nausea.

“Then you’re not really here?” he murmured. “Are any of these memories even real?”

“They’re real.”

Did that make things worse, or better? Locke wasn’t sure. “So what you are? A memory as well?”

“Yes. No.” Lamor sighed. “I had hoped never to have this conversation with you. You weren’t supposed to remember me at all.” Lamor pushed himself to his feet and stood over Locke. There was a boat nearby, pulled ashore—their boat. “Do you know why we’re here?”

“No,” Locke admitted.

“We’re here, because this was the spot you almost died…And this was the spot I transmitted my soul and life-energy into your body.”

Locke’s mouth felt dry. “So what Patience said—it was all true!”

Lamor snorted. “What Patience said was an assumption based on her prejudice, her dislike and a lack of facts. And the fact is, Locke, when I gave my life to save yours, I suppressed my own memories so that they would never affect you. You asked if I was a memory—well, I am. I am all of Lamor’s memories, locked away inside your head.”

It was too much—a muddle of information, like a swarm of bees. Locke shook his head, as if that would clear it. “Why?” he demanded. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I didn’t want you to die,” Lamor said. “And if I didn’t tie away my memories, and those memories you had of me, then you—you the boy I knew, and cared for—wouldn’t have survived. You would have been corrupted. After all, I had decades of life over you—which memories do you think would be stronger? I wanted to give you the best chance of surviving, body and soul. Naturally, it was inevitable I would affect you in some ways, but for the most part, you were allowed to be yourself.”

Locke felt numb with shock. His head continued to pound.

Lamor clasped his hands behind his back and faced away. “These memories were meant to stay sealed away forever, but…”

“But?”

“But you had to go get hit by lightning, didn’t you?” Lamor actually laughed. “A force as strong as that is one of the only things which can snap a magical bond. When the lightning stuck, it dislodged the last of my spell, and so here I am.” Lamor’s voice was tinged with something sad. “Fortunately, we are on equal footing now. You have lived enough, experienced enough, aged enough that my memories—those of Lamor—are unlikely to dominate you anymore.”

“But…I do have your memories now.”

“You do. Think of them like…an inheritance. Now all of it is enjoyable, but there are a few things which may aid you in future. Especially with your magic.”

“My _what?”_

“Look for yourself,” Lamor said. “You have access to all the memories now too.”

Locke frowned, and pushing the pain of his aching head away, he concentrated and threw his mind back. He felt the familiar shift of his own memories, and then with a strange thrill others flocked into his mind. It was like recalling something he’d forgotten—both familiar and exhilaratingly new.

“Holy fucking thirteen,” Locke hissed, “you sensed magic in me!”

“I would have thought that was obvious when I told you I was going to teach you to be a bondsmage.”

“You sealed away my power!” Locke didn’t know what was more appalling, the discovery he might have been a bondsmage, or that Lamor had robbed him of the chance to be. “You sensed magic in me, and you sealed it away!”

“I did, and for that, I apologise,” Lamor said. “You will have to deal with that now.”

“Deal with what? I don’t want magic—and I don’t want anything to do with the Bondsmagi!”

“Well tough, because I’m one, and that lightning did more than dislodge your memories.”

Locke’s whole body lurched. “You mean the seal—”

“Broken. Enjoy having magic, Locke. You’ll have to learn quickly, but my memories will no doubt aid you in getting used to them. It’s the only way I can teach you now.”

“I don’t want you to teach me at all!” Locke bellowed, and he tried to struggle to his feet. It was impossible. Lamor stood just out of his reach, as if sensing Locke wanted to punch him across the face.

“I was proud to be a Bondsmage,” he said quietly.

“And I’m not you—your fucking friends killed my family!” Locke roared.

“I am well aware.”

“Fuck you— _you’re aware_!” Locke’s whole body shook with the force of his grief and anger.

“I was here the whole time, Locke. You and I—our souls are tied. When you wept, and raged, and feared, I knew it. I felt it. It happened to me just as it did to you.”

“I am not a gods-damn Bondsmagi!”

“You’re not,” Lamor agreed. “Nor will you ever be. Because they’re gone, Locke. All of them, gone.”

Locke’s voice cut out. He’d forgotten—Patience had told them they were disappearing. The Bondsmagi were no more, and no one was going to come after him now…At least not for this.

He slumped, exhausted. Lamor crossed over, and very gently lowered himself down beside Locke. “I should have known you’d be the death of me, Locke,” he said.

Locke grunted.

“Patience foretold it when I left.”

“Foretold what?”

Lamor gave him a pointed look, and two memories rose into his mind again. They ran parallel to one another, one his, one Lamor’s. One was of the old woman Patience, the other of the newly-made Patience who Lamor still knew as the Semestress. Locke went cold.

“A key, a crown, a child,” Lamor said.

“She made the same prediction to you,” Locke choked.

“She did. And it came true.”

“What?”

“I lost all three. Indeed, you _stole_ all three from me.”

Locke opened and closed his mouth, and then he remembered. Yes, he remembered it all—the Key he’d stolen to Lamor’s house, and used to let himself in. The Iron-crown Lamor had give him, which Locke had debated on whether or not to keep, and had instead used to summon the physicker…

“But what about the child? I didn’t steal a child from you!” Locke spluttered.

“Yes, you did. The moment you moved in the way of that bolt. Oh, I may not have realised it then, but I see your memories as clear as you now have mine—you shielded me. That death should have been mine, but instead I lost you. My child.”

“But…” Locke spluttered. “What about the silver rain? There was no—” He cut himself off. “The arrows.”

They had looked like rain, shooting lightning fast through the air down over their heads. “So that prediction…” Locke murmured, “it was for you.”

“Apparently. Then again, it might well have been for you too.”

“How so?”

“The thousands of crowns you sank to the bottom of the sea, when your friends perished. The key to your heart, which you lost when your true love left you behind in Camorr. The child you held in your arms, bleeding, as he died…”

“Bug,” Locke choked, and once again two memories battled in his mind. Of himself, lying lifeless in Lamor’s arms, and Bug staring up at him blankly with unseeing eyes.

“History repeats itself,” Lamor murmured.

“The silver rain?” Locke asked softly.

Lamor smiled, and a flash of lightning forked across the sky. The curtain of rain falling over the water was lit up, shimmering like needles for a split second. The last thing Locke had seen, before the lightning struck.

“But you said I wasn’t dead!” he said.

“You’re not. But you’re definitely dying. Perhaps Patience was right for the both of us.”

“Fuck this!” Locke shouted, and some of his strength returned to his aching body. “I don’t have time to die—I have to get back. Jean, Sabetha—”

Lamor held up his hand. “I know,” he said. “You want to live, Locke?”

“Yes!”

“How badly?”

“Badly! Fuck—Lamor, I’m not dying!”

“Good. I want you to live as well.” Lamor offered Locke a hand. “So it’s time to make use of that magic of yours Locke.”

Locke, who’d reached forward to take Lamor’s hand, snapped it back. “What?”

“You want to live, Locke.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then stop being a fucking child, and embrace what you are,” Lamor snapped. “Take my hand.”

Locke stared at those outstretched fingers, and thought of Jean. And Sabetha. Quietly, he took Lamor’s hand, and let Lamor pull him up.

His body screamed in protest, and he stumbled as he came to his feet. Lamor caught him easily. Even as a man, Locke was still smaller than Lamor by close to a head. Lamor smiled down at him. “You never really grew up, did you?”

“Piss off.”

Lamor cackled. “I’m glad I got to see you again, Locke…That is, I _would_ have been glad to see you again.”

Locke’s lips twitched down, his heart squeezing. “Well…I’m glad I know the truth,” he said. “And that I remember you. I…I loved you, Lamor. You were like a father to me.”

“No, no, that title is reserved for Chains.”

“Him too,” Locke said. “But before that, it really was you. You were the only one…Thank you, Lamor.”

“Call me, Kole.”

For half a second, Locke didn’t know what that meant, and then he realised. “Your true name?” he breathed. Lamor bowed his head.

“It means ‘The Keeper of Keys’ he said.

“You…You unoriginal bastard,” Locke spluttered. “You’re name means Key, so you called me Locke!?”

Lamor threw his head back and laughed. “Blame my father,” he said. “Are you ready? This will probably hurt.”

“I already hurt,” Locke said. “Only thing that makes me sure I’m alive.”

Lamor gripped his arms tightly. “Time to wake up then,” he said. “Your friends miss you.”

 

**Next chapter, we finally go back to Jean and Sabetha! But how do you think it's all going to end?**


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and shared their thoughts with me. I wouldn't have finished it without you. 
> 
> This is my first Locke Lamora fic, but I may yet dabble again in future. What do you think? What would you like to see? I'm half-inclined to do a sequel to this one...Would anyone be interested?

Chapter Sixteen

 

The first two things Locke registered, as his eyes slid open was the brilliant morning light and then the pain.

He gasped, his jaw clenched tight. “Oh fuck.”

The room was silent. Outside there was bird-song, and the curtains were drawn back. Locke struggled to turn his head, and saw the room was empty. The bed beside him was warm, like someone had been lying next to him only moments before. Jean, Locke guessed, from the indent in the bed.

Gritting his teeth, Locke pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked down, blinking quickly. His eyes stung, and he could taste blood in his mouth. His chest was bare, and marked with an intricate scar all the way down. Locke shook his head, making it pound, and slowly eased himself around to the edge of the bed. By the time he was sat, legs dangling off, he felt like he’d run a hundred miles, sweat pouring down his body. He dragged in a shuddering breath, rubbing his eyes.

Everything was blurry, but as he slowly adjusted to the light, his vision sharpened. The pounding pain in his head eased. Locke breathed in deeply, and pushed himself up to his feet. He wobbled dangerously, but managed to stay upright.

His limbs were stiff, but as he forced them to move, they loosened. Locke crossed the room, found himself a shirt and pulled it on. On the window-sill he saw something gleaming, and reaching out he held up a shimmering strand of Sabetha’s hair. He caught her scent in the room, and he heaved a sigh. Was she close? Had she stayed?

Locke had to find her. He had to find Jean.

He pushed his hair back, and taking a string, he tied it out of his face. It tickled the back of his neck. He could feel a little peach-fuzz on his face, but it hadn’t grown long enough to call it a proper stubble. How long had he been asleep? A day? Two? Long enough to have caused concern.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and cursed. His eyes were completely blood-shot, dry blood staining his cheeks, mouth and chin. He poured the pitcher of water into a bowl, and taking a towel, he scrubbed his face clean, and then left, barely stopping to put his shoes on.

He met an old man in the corridor who took one look at him, cried out in alarm, and scampered away before Locke could ask him if he’d seen Jean and Sebetha.

He wondered down the stairs, and seeing nobody at the reception, went around to the bar. He spotted one of the serving girls and ushered her over. She went white as a sheet when she saw him.

“Sir!” she gasped. “You’re awake!”

“I am,” Locke said, his voice gruff and hoarse. “My friends—did you see them?”

“I’ll fetch the physicker—” The woman tried to dart away, but with surprising speed, Locke grabbed her wrist.

“Please,” he said, “my friends. Where are they?”

“I…” The girl’s eyes widened. “I saw them go to the stable,” she admitted.

Locke released her, and turning he stumbled in the direction of the stable. Why would Jean and Sabetha go there? A cold dread rose up through him—was it Sabetha? Was she leaving? Perhaps Jean had been trying to stop her. Perhaps he’d been planning on going with her.

With difficulty he broke into a half-run, and rushed to the stable. He almost slipped on the straw underfoot, and stood, panting. He could see both his and Jean’s horses, knickering in their stables. Beside them, Locke saw the horse that Sabetha had ridden in on and wilted with relief. Not gone…

So where were they?

Turning back to the inn, Locke re-entered in time to hear a bellow echo down from upstairs. Chills jumped down his body. Jean. That was Jean’s voice.

*

The walk up the stairs to the bedroom felt like it stretched on for miles. Jean was exhausted, his body raked with grief. He felt like was walking to his own grave. No—it would be _easier_ to walk to his own grave than this.

A part of him still wanted to turn back and go to the stable. To throw his saddle over the horse, lead it out into the courtyard, and ride away from it all. He didn’t, soul and body heavy. Sabetha’s hand tightened in his, as if she sensed his thoughts. As much as they had argued, Jean didn’t think he’d have managed with it all had she not been there with him.

Turning down the corridor toward their room, Jean’s stomach constricted as he spotted their door ajar. He shot a look at Sabetha who had also gone still, eyes wide.

“Did you leave it open?” he demanded.

“No,” she said, and then she was pushing ahead of him.

They both went to the door and looked in. Jean’s eyes fell on their bags, expecting to find them ransacked, but the room was as he’d left it. He pushed in, his hatchets in his hands, Sabetha arming herself with a pair of stilettos that fell from her inner sleeves.

Stepped forward into the whole room, they both prepared for someone to jump out, but the room was empty…

Completely empty.

Jean almost dropped his weapons. The bed was empty, traces of blood left on the sheets and pillow. “Gods!” he cried, and rushed to the bed-side, expecting to find Locke crumbled out of sight on the side. Nothing—no one. Sabetha ran to the bathroom door and pulled it open. Also empty.

“He’s gone,” Jean babbled. “He’s—damn it, Sabetha, he’s gone!”

“I can see he’s gone!” Sabetha snapped.

“He must have been taken!” Jean panicked. Body-snatchers, perhaps? Word had spread there was a dying man in the inn—too many people had seen the sceptical as Jean had beat Locke’s heart back to life. Or perhaps he’d been kidnapped by an old enemy, who meant to hold him hostage? Or perhaps…

Had he woken? Impossible. Jean had seen the state of him—even if he woke, it would take all the magic in Emberlain to give Locke the ability to get up and leave. He’d been a breath away from death.

“We have to find him!” Jean turned on his heal, Sabetha nodding firmly.

“We were only gone for a minute—he can’t have gotten far.”

Jean stepped back out into the corridor at the same moment that something came tearing up the stairs to his left. He turned sharply in time to see Locke trip into the corridor and half-collapse against a wall, breathing hard.

Jean froze to the spot. Locke’s eyes, squeezed closed as he gasped for air, opened a sliver and caught his. Blood-shot, but alive.

“I’m…here…” Locke gasped. “Right…here.”

“Locke,” Jean choked.

Sabetha stepped out of the door behind him and gasped, going still. Locke’s eyes darted up to her, and he wilted in relief.

 “Thank the gods,” he whispered, sounding like he’d drunk his way out of a barrel of brandy. “I thought you’d both—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish. Snapping out of his momentary paralysis, Jean lurched forward, and without stopping to think about what he was doing, he grabbed Locke by the shoulders, swooped in, and kissed him full across the lips.

Locke went utterly ridged, his mouth parted as he made a sound of surprise. One of Jean’s hands wormed up behind Locke’s head, into his hair, holding him in place.

“Jean!” Locke said, dazed and shocked. “What—”

“You idiot!” Jean pulled away for only as long as it took to hiss the insult, and then he kissed Locke again. Locke’s mouth, tense under his own, finally softened, and his lips parted with a sigh. He seemed to melt a little into Jean’s embrace. Jean could taste the remnant of blood, and it made him shudder. He broke the kiss, wrapped both arms around Locke’s tiny body, and lifted him into a crushing hug. Locke cried out.

 “Jean—ach, my chest!”

Jean didn’t let go, and the next instant, Locke’s arms were around his neck, holding him tightly, their foreheads pressed together.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, and the sobs which Jean had so freshly swallowed down came shuddering back up through him.

 “Locke,” he gulped, “Locke—you son of a bitch! Locke!”

Sabetha was there a moment later, and Jean relinquished Locke only long enough to drag her into the embrace as well. Her eyes were bright with tears.

“You bastard!” she kissed Locke in turn. “You scared us!”

“I’m sorry—gods, ow! I can’t breath…Gods, please,” Locke pleaded, and Jean finally let go, allowing Locke back to his feet. Almost a soon as he did, Locke’s legs gave way, and Jean had to grab him again. Locke gripped his arm, his body cold with a sheen of sweat. He was deathly pale.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Sabetha murmured, and Jean grunted in agreement, wiping his watering eyes with one hand. Locke nodded, and allowed Jean and Sabetha to take him by either side, and help him back into the room.

He was lowered onto the bed, and then Jean ran for the physiker before any more could be said.

The physicker didn’t believe him when Jean burst into the room with a loud, “He’s awake!”

The physicker followed Jean back into the room, and almost fainted when he saw Locke lying in the bed, speaking with Sabetha.

“By the gods, sir! Tis a miracle!”

“Who the fuck is this? Ow!” Locke hissed as the physicker pinched him.

“Lie back, sir! Lie back—I must examine you! By what power you have lived through this trail, I do not know, but you must lie back!”

Locke squawked and protested, and then finally allowed himself to be examined.

“My throat is parched like a Camorri backstreet in summer—I need a drink,” he said, and Jean gave him a glass of watered wine, which he downed in a matter of seconds.

“Surely this must be a jest,” the physicker said. “You must think me a fool—you must be a brother of the poor man I attended to. Yet the scar—tis not paint! This is most improbable indeed!”

“What is it?” Jean asked impatiently.

“He is quite, healed sir! That is—I should condemn him to bedrest a week more, and I’d wager he needs longer to gain the vitality a man of his tender age should expect, but either some act of the gods has taken place, or else I am quite mad! This man’s ribs were broken from your administrations, and now seem quite mended.” He poked Locke in the side to demonstrate, and Locke hissed.

“That hurts, you son-of-a-bitch!”

“Tender—yes! Bruised, I should say—but no longer broken. And the burn! Do you not behold how the skin is no longer pealing and shining red? It is a scar, as if of some weeks! And consciousness, sir! Your brain was liquefied—yet you speak, and move, and converse as you did. Do you notice a change in him?”

“More wine,” Locke demanded.

“No change,” Jean said.

“A miracle! The gods must love you, sir!”

“I was struck by lightning,” Locke said.

“And yet lived! I advised your friends to call you a priest!”

“Maybe you’re just a shit physicker?” Locke suggested, and Sabetha poked him. Jean could feel laughter deep in his stomach.

“Excuse my friend,” he said, “he is an ass.”

“A thirsty ass. And hungry,” Locke said. “Hungry enough to eat a horse.”

“I’ll have some food brought up. May he eat, Physicker?” Sabetha asked the Physicker who threw his hands in the air.

“Indeed! Though watch he doesn’t choke—for that would be a cruel joke indeed. Sir, I shall attend to you later. Perhaps by nightfall, you will have healed away your scars and bruises too!”

“Perhaps,” Locke said, and managed a cordial nod as the physicker left. Sebetha followed after him, disappearing downstairs. Locke looked at the door, watching after her.

“Jean,” he said, “will you follow her? I’m afraid—”

“She won’t leave,” Jean said.

“But—”

“She won’t. Not yet.” Jean sat down heavily on the side of the bed, staring at Locke. Locke stared back, and Jean felt a creeping flush of redness warm his cheeks. “You really I scared us. Me.”

“I’m sorry,” Locke said softly. “But for once it wasn’t my fault.”

“Not your fault? Running out in a lightning storm—I blame you entirely,” Jean said. “Of course it would be you who was struck. And it would be you who survived.”

“Jean,” Locke said softly, because Jean was taking too long to address the issue. “You kissed me.”

“I…” Jean sighed. “Damn it, yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“That’s a fine question.” Jean’s voice tinged with anger, and Locke’s hand snapped out and rested on his forearm.

“Jean, I have no doubt of your affection for me, as you could never doubt mine, but…I thought…I never realised it was that particular flavour of affection.”

“I don’t even know what flavour of affection it is either,” Jean admitted. “I just know…These last few days have been torture for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Locke repeated.

“I won’t kiss you again.” Jean waited for relief to pass over Locke’s face, but instead he looked thoughtful.

“I’m not…adverse to it,” Locke said slowly.

“I know I’m not Sabetha,” Jean said, and Locke raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not Ezri.”

“No, you certainly aren’t,” Jean agreed, and he realised that Locke understood. “It’s not that I desire you,” Jean said.

“Why? What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re not much to pine after, Locke.”

“Thirteen—you’re going to make me blush.”

“I’d die for you.”

“This, I know,” Locke said. “And you’ll kiss me, apparently.”

Jean paused, and leaning forward, he pressed his lips more tenderly to Locke’s, experimenting. Locke returned the gentle pressure, and they pulled apart. “I love you,” he whispered, and Locke breathed softly. “And…and I almost left. I’m sorry, Locke.”

“Left?”

“I…I thought you were dying. I couldn’t watch. I…I ran—gods, I’m so ashamed.”

Locke’s eyes were searching, his brow pinched. He settled. “I understand.”

“You don’t have to forgive me—”

“I do. I understand. I’m sorry.”

Jean shook his head miserably. “I really thought this was it—the day you finally died,” he said softly. “You were…Locke, I don’t even know how you survived this.”

“Ah. That, I can’t explain…but you won’t like it.”

“You’re alive!” Jean said. “Whatever, or whoever I can thank for that, I will!”

“And I’ll ask the price,” Sabetha said, reappearing in the doorway. “They’re preparing a feast. Apparently, there’s a serving girl downstairs who thought you were a ghost.”

“I may have startled her,” Locke winced.

“Nevermind that.” Sabetha came and sat on the other side of Locke. She didn’t seem at all perturbed by the kiss she’s witnessed, or Jean’s proximity to Locke now. “Explain,” she said. “How did Locke Lamora get out of this one? If you say it was all a trick, I’ll kill you myself.”

“No trick,” Locke assured. “But it’s a long story…And it begins with Lamor Arcanthus.”

*

By the time Locke had finished telling them everything, he felt like he’d swallowed glass. The food came, and he ate with the kind of hunger he’d had when Patience cured him. Jean and Sabetha impatiently waited, slipping in questions and demanding explanations between mouthfuls.

“So you have magic?” Jean finally said.

“Apparently,” Locke said around a breadroll.

“And you used it to heal yourself?”

“Speed up the process, yes,” Locke said. “Well, Lamor did it, really. We did it together.”

“But…” Sabetha’s voice was impossibly soft, “you _are_ Lamor.”

Locke big his lip, nodded and then shook his head. “I…have his memories,” he said. “The lightning unlocked them, as well as the magic. And part of his soul lives in me now…But I’m Locke,” he said. “I have always been Locke, I swear, Sabetha. And now I remember, I can tell you that—I can guarantee it. It’s me.”

Sabetha’s eyes were shining. She exchanged a look with Jean, who winced.

“Sabetha?”

“I have something to tell you…” Sabetha said. “About who I am, and…who I am to you.”

Locke’s chest tightened and he shot a paniced look at Jean, who had his eyes to the floor, face reserved.

“Tell me what,” Locke said, terrified.

Sabetha rose from the bed. “If you remember everything of Lamor’s life,” she said softly, “then you’ll remember Lamor’s wife. She—”

“Esme,” Locke said, and Sabetha went still.

“Excuse me?”

“Esme Corona,” Locke said. “But you don’t need to worry about her, Sabetha.”

“Sabetha’s concerns are a little more complex—” Jean began, but Locke spoke over her.

“Lamor loved Esme without sense. Maybe I get some of my strength of feeling from him, but Sabetha,” he pushed himself straighter, “her hair was brown.”

Sabetha hadn’t moved an inch, her breath caught. “What?”

“Esme’s hair was brown,” Locke repeated. “I remember.”

Sabetha’s mouth opened and closed. She looked at Jean, who had sat up very straight in the bed. “But the portrait—”

“I have no idea who they were,” Locke said. “But she wasn’t Esme, and he definitely wasn’t Lamor.”

Sabetha stared at with such intensity, for half a second he thought she was going to come flying in with a punch. “Swear to me,” she said, “swear to me you’re not lying. On our brothers.”

“I thought we agreed not to use their names as a magic spell,” Locke said.

“Swear it, Locke!”

“I swear,” he said quickly. “On Calo, and Galdo, on Chains and Bug. I have no idea who the people in the portrait were, but it wasn’t Lamor and Esme.”

“Then we’re not…Lamor’s not my father?”

Locke spluttered. “ _What?_ ” He laughed. “Wait—you’re serious? Lamor—no! Lamor didn’t have any children.”

“Not a mistress—”

“I told you, he loved Esme without sense! She was the only one he saw! Gods, Sabetha, what are you—”

But Sabetha had crumbled to floor with a cry. Locke tried to throw himself out of the bed, but Jean grabbed him from behind and held him down before he did himself harm. From her heap on the floor, Sabetha began to laugh.

“That Bondsmage bitch!” she laughed. “She never even _said_ it was Lamor. She just…she just showed me the picture and said I would recognise them. I…she suggested, but never said, and I assumed…” She sat up, tears streaming down her face. “I am such an idiot!”

Locke had no idea what was going on, but despite the tears, Sabetha looked like she’d been freed.

“Patience really did tailor the worst revenge for us all,” Jean murmured.

Sabetha crawled onto the bed, and taking Locke’s face in her hands, she kissed him. For the secod time, Locke melted into that sensation, his body going weak. They both fell down into the bed. Jean coughed.

“I’ll leave you both to—” He began to shift away, half-rising from the bed.

“Don’t you dare!” Sabetha broke off from the kiss, and held Jean in-place. “You stay right here with us.”

“But—”

“Stay,” Locke whispered, and there was a moment silence. Then the bed dipped, and Jean’s chest was against his back, and Locke sighed, sinking into the pillow, tucked between the two people he loved most in the world.

And as he lay there, thoughts curled into his mind, about who he was, and how he felt for Jean and Sabetha, and the Gentleman Bastards, and his new magic…

And like an alchemical process, a plot began to form in his brain.

“…I have an idea,” he said, surprising both Sabetha and Jean.

“An idea?” Jean rumbled. “For what?”

“For our next little game.”

There was a beat of silence, and then both Sabetha and Jean were laughing, almost hysterically.

“I hate you, Locke,” Jean said. “I absolutely hate you!”

“I could break your head open,” Sabetha agreed, and kissed him again.

“Chain’s was right when he said you’d scheme in your grave,” Jean said, and he was smiling, despite his anger. “What ploy could you have possibly have concocted between waking up a scant two hours ago, and now?”

“A plan with holes wide enough to lose a whale through it.” Sabetha gripped Locke’s arm, her eyes burning with excitement, ready for the challenge. “Well go on then, you lunatic. Share—what’s this plan of yours?”

And Locke grinned, and told them.

* * *

**Reader, it is finished! Thank you again to all who have reviewed. Please do take a minute below to share your thoughts, and tell me if you'd like to see more from me!**

 

**Thanks everyone!**


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